The iris is cut at dawn. Before the heat, before the flower opens, before anyone is properly awake. That is when the harvest happens, and the perfume is named after the hour rather than the flower.
So the whole campaign lives inside it. A field of blue-violet under a sky that has not settled on a colour. The bottle lying down among the cut flowers instead of standing over them. A wave of petals going up. A woman in coral walking through, the only warm thing for a hundred metres.
And once, a close look at what iris actually smells of, which is not the flower at all but the root, cut and left to dry for years. That is the only frame that leaves the field.
