recently I had the chance and pleasure to meet Miss Deanna, the elusive and merciful mama of the first-class majority of the system's boys. She grew up as a thistle in this Emilian middle of nowhere to be fairily discovered by rich Americans en panne while she was just a laborious gasoline pump attendand. One thing leads to another, she became the businesswoman who raised the knitscape foundation back in the sixties and later the legendary creature who's hand and glove with Kenzo Takada and chemically helps Martin's dreams in creating a fibre able to maintain the shapes of the human bodies. And most importantly she made cakes. For us! For real! Delightful cakes! Big and bigger snobbish names queue to research in her archives (among the others: Giorgio Armani, Neil Barret, Caroll Tricot, Enrico Coveri, Angelo Figus, Romeo Gigli, Joseph, Krizia, Julien MacDonald, Gai Mattiolo, Claude Montana, Pour Toi, Prada, Yves Saint-Laurent, Lawrence Steele, Josephus Thimister, Valentino, Versace, Adrienne Vittadini, Zoran), and if I had any hat I would have taken it off, because getting in felt somehow profane.
Deanna Ferretti with the painter Salvatore Fiume and her portrait, via unilibro