She is large, looming over a row of shop backs. Yet she is not threatening or grotesque. Nor is she tawdry or gaudy. Washed onto the cream wall in shades of warm grey, her lips have no shine, her eyes no azure intensity. She is not what we expect from Rone. She has walked from the pages of a magazine, but shed its glossy, saturated colours. An underpainting; a study in stripping back. She is not heavy, laboured or layered; her form barely impinges on the surface of the building.
She does not announce herself immediately, brazenly calling out from the wall as her predecessors do. Leaves curl outwards from plaza trees to veil her eyes and the curious back rooms of old city buildings protrude before her. Upon one of these, a doorway on the first floor opens onto air. From behind it, she seems to wink.
She has melted into her wall, charming those who look up into her eye. She seems to exude the subtlety, worldliness and charm of the stretch of sophisticated city street she adorns – this is Collins Street’s ‘Paris End.’ She is autumnal and mellow, perhaps mournful, as she seems to gaze through the glassy office buildings into a distance beyond.