Katara, Doha. A square that was simply a square the month before, and will be again. For a short while, a fragrance house has moved in: umbrellas in its own pale yellow, gold chairs set out under the stone, a counter where there was nothing.

The architecture around it does not flinch.

A house known for one language, attempting another. The question was translation. How does a perfume become a place you can sit inside? Something you can taste, or drink while the afternoon passes?

Not coverage of an occasion. A record of a conversion.

Arrival first, the way any visitor finds it. Then the house itself: the bee bottle in its glass case, gold repeated until it stops being decoration and becomes weather.

The centre of the work is the smallest frame. A macaron carrying the name of a perfume house, a chocolate cooling beside it. The collection follows, arranged in the open air, and then a last look back through the columns.