I wanted the object to arrive as a question, not an answer. A brass compass is perfect — it promises direction but delivers none without someone to follow it. Setting her in this forgotten perfumery gives us the texture of an industry built on capturing the ephemeral, on bottling what cannot be held. The Dinka-Provençal fusion felt necessary: two cultures where scent and body carry profound meaning, where marking the skin is sacred. She stands among empty vessels like a single full thing in a room of absences. The compass will travel through the week, but here it's still warm from the hand that last held it.