In the mosaic ceiling patterns the lyre and the beanstalk seeds hint at the pinnacles that operatic performances can attain in the Oran opera house.  The red velvet seats are reminiscent of an era gone by.  The stage front box seats speak of wealth beyond our understanding. On the streets there is fatigue!  A tired that requires more than a police lullaby to quiet.  The uniforms and batons usher the visitors through town.  The vista between the columns of the opera house focuses on the conqueror monument.  The monuments in many cities are pedestals for the “last” hero and updated in accordance with the victor.

The deteriorating balcony supports, the unsafe angles and wires dangling visually organize the mind to a memory of an age gone by and bad.  The deteriorating grandeur makes it hard to study history.

The story that history has burried is the dolls that Yves Saint Laurent clothed with fabric from his mother’s  dresses.  The family home and the story is woven like an oven for discontent.  Each image carries opulence in the face of decay.

The courtyard has been reclaimed as reception area for visitors who genuinely appreciate the depth of story as it meets the cutting edge of design.  The emergence of a world leader without office is a story about creativity crossing from turmoil to triumph without a bullet.

The portraits are easelled around the Saint Laurent’s childhood home.  He left at age eighteen and the designer’s career has been claimed by many fathers.

On the red carpeted staircase at the Opera House Margaret pauses before returning to our police escorted walk around Oran.  Oil, fashion, history all claim potential.  The police guard shelters our eyes from the whole story.