They were my mother’s stories, which made me fall in love with Parma, with a poignant nostalgia. When we were exiles for long years.

She was the daughter of farmers from the province, and she raised us with the precept of “vestí ‘dla fésta”(clothes you would wear only on a Sunday or on a special occasion). To go to the village: to church on Sunday or to the market on Saturday, to the Ferragosto (15th August) festival. For special holidays, and in obedience to ceremonies with relatives: weddings, funerals, baptisms and confirmations.

A venial ostentation, arranged with care, to make a good impression, with dignity. A wardrobe of a few essential items, which came from the hands of the town tailor. Which smelled like dried lavender flowers. Sober garments, with a timeless elegance.

Without fashion, we didn’t know what it meant. Her best youth coincided with a difficult life during the war.

But it didn’t stop her from dreaming about how city ladies dressed. With easy-going irony for a slight unexpressed desire, he depicted what were the exaggerated and flashy fashion canons of the glittering post-war years: “… ‘na vésta con i fiorón [a dress designed with large flowers] [una veste disegnata di grossi fiori]… with i bòlón [with large polka dots]”. [con grossi pois]”.

If then in the background of the catwalk there is Parma (the opinionated elegant petite capital) then I willingly sat down at the edge to look for clues. With a pinch of that same irony that my mother liked so much.