Moods In the air TEXT François Simon Air is the new gold. Even better, it’s intangible, can’t be resold or hidden under a mattress. It migrates, dances and sings. It has no flag or hymn. It sometimes morphs into a wind, visiting three continents in a single night, before coming to rest in a tree in Senegal. Air can be unobtrusive, incisive. It’s air that lends grace to an article of clothing. How? The way it slips in between the fabric and the skin, imbuing it with volume and elegance. An air we just can’t put our finger on . . . It carries scents and creates sillage. It’s also air that creates a nice salad, a flawless soufflé and raised bread. Air is the invisible ingredient in cooking. It can’t be ordered in a store, yet it whips up a composition and can even thicken a sauce or turn an avocado brown. Air very nearly keeps us upright. It can drive us crazy, make our ears ring with its strong gusts. It can render us happy, loquacious, love-struck. Air is the thread linking these pages. It looms large in our dreams, carrying within it our ambitions and the feelings we sometimes take for granted. More than ever, we should follow its fluid movements, its discretion, its benevolent way of engaging. It whispers a thousand words in our ears, but do we hear them? 38