The showroom was on the right street, with the right lighting and the right people, and Marta Oller spent six years making sure of it. Then one spring she did not renew the lease on any of it, and drove ninety minutes north to a hillside her grandmother used to farm.
She did not call it a reinvention. She called it paying attention.
Taste, transplanted
I do not treat anything as disposable. Not people, not plants, not a good jacket.
What she kept from the old life was the eye. The studio above the canal has eight plants, one point of view, and a tolerance for slowness that the showroom never allowed. The work is glass now, but the discipline is the same: decide what earns a place, then defend it.
