I had almost forgetten the magic Erté's prints held for me in my childhood. My mother was enamoured by his glamorous effigees and throughout her carreer as a fashion designer, she stylizedd her sihlouettes from his example. As I learnt how to draw, I would sit with a great big coffee table book of his prints and attempt to copy them.

At some point, I do not remember precisely when, my mother acquired a priceless mirror by Erte. Staring into it I could only imagine it held certain magical qualities, that perhaps it had the power to transform me into one of his muses.

In all my dreams, I would take the shape of one of his impossibly poised heroines. To me they embodied everything that was feminine: beauty, charm, dignity and always, a certain little edge of malice. My taste for dreams and grandeur is from staring at Erte's.