It could be anytime in the day. We are walking down a pedestrian street in Milan. Only a few decades ago it was almost dilapidated, deserted; today, well-paved, cutting its way among equally recent high financial towers, it bustles with people. At a corner of an address—number 10—we see blue and green glass panels whose well-traced and separated colors meet and open onto a pathway. Above, we glimpse some tufts of vegetation: even plants have a life here.

Above all, one is in for a surprise; for groups—not isolated individuals, who are there as well, but groups—sneak between two sections that leave a winding path, to enter a completely green garden. Alongside this garden three rooms of a hotel overlook the levels of the courtyard. In the courtyard there’s almost no flower, but there is instead greenery that generates a vegetal atmosphere, oxygen. Left and right lie tables and terraces, once you pass this wall of shrubbery. Straight ahead, very close, is a building. It opens onto a great hall and, to the left, a stairwell. At a slight left, we find an entry where clothing is on display, together with other objects that cannot yet be identified. From the dishes that are carried and from the drinks that are served, which differ according to the time of day, one can see that the great hall is a café and a restaurant. But it’s not merely a café, not merely a restaurant: in the middle stands a big fountain, from which no water springs but where rings of glass are enclosed in one another; they are fixed but look as if they were in motion. Further away there is a bar, framed from behind but with an overview by a wall with works on paper that, seen together, resemble a landscape. We look up and find porcelain branches falling from the ceiling, like stalactites.

We would take a turn and discover the clothing: fabrics adorning mannequins, suspended on hangers and racks, but also, further away, handbags, brooches, makeup, all kinds of objects. Certain objects are marked with letters that seem related to the place. We note brand names, but we see them in a big whole, coordinated with drawings in the background, with murals, with a large chandelier that hangs like a piece of vegetation. In the middle, people, visitors, and others are ready to present the objects, to describe them as if they were tourist guides, and to sell them.

A stairwell leads to the first floor; at the mezzanine, a little gallery, which on this day displays an installation; going further up, we bump into a bookstore: books of literature, art, photography, style, design, and then pens, pencils, and notebooks: the world of writing. Continuing along, we come to a larger gallery where photographs are on display. Through the windows we see the terrace replete with vegetation. We then decipher an inscription down below: 10 Corso Como.