I grew up in Paris, where gold was worn quietly — a thread of chain barely visible at the collar, a thin band on the fourth finger. Gold as restraint.
When I returned to Cairo, I understood gold differently. Here it does not restrain. It announces. It remembers.
My grandmother wore seven gold bangles on each wrist, each one a year of her marriage, a child, a house. When she moved, she chimed. When I wear my Cuff — a single arc of hammered copper — I hear something of that sound.
I design for the woman who wants gold to speak, but in her own register. Not loudly. Not insistently. But unmistakably.