She's an ugly little girl.
Her mother, a descendant of the Medici, often reproaches her for this: Elsa has nothing in common with the classical beauty of her sister, so perfectly attuned to the canons of this end of the 19th century.
The child then has an idea.
She runs into the garden of the Roman property where she lives with her family, covers her face with earth and places seeds there, taking care to lodge some in her mouth and ears.
And she waits for another face to grow on her, more beautiful than the one she inherited, a flowery face, bursting with spring, and which can only win her mother's admiration and love...
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Of flowering, there was not.
Punishment, no doubt.
But Elsa Schiaparelli was going through this desperately poetic act to find the key to her own life and the mantra of her career: if reality is disappointing, then fantasy and imagination must make up for it.
You have to go to the Museum of Decorative Arts…
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