Bruno.

Below twelve degrees, Bruno slows down. His fingers lose precision, concentration fades, the mixer knobs become hard to turn. In January, with the mistral blowing through the streets of the Vieux-Port, he arrives at sound checks with his hands in his pockets and five minutes of waiting before touching anything. Someone offers him gloves. He declines: he can't feel the frequencies with gloves. Not stubbornness — well, a little. It's that gloves cut out half the information.

The heating in his twenty-eight-square-meter studio in Cours Julien is always at twenty-four degrees. It's a former tailor's workshop with three-and-a-half-meter ceilings, pale green walls, and a mattress in the darkest corner. In winter, Bruno sleeps more, goes out less, cancels plans. He cooks more — tajine, ratatouille, things that take over an hour on a low flame.

A full-print sweatshirt covers the whole body with a single image. In Bruno's case, that means his portrait runs from the collar to the waist and down the sleeves. Fabric, construction, and care are in the **Fabric, fit and construction** tab.

Bruno works best when the sun goes down. He wakes up around eleven. Coffee — the first of three, always black, always in a small cup. At noon he buys vegetables at the Noailles market, fifteen minutes on foot from home. Always at the same stall, an Algerian greengrocer who sets aside large eggplants for him because she knows he makes tajine. He comes back, eats a little, checks equipment, cleans cables. At five he heads to the gig if there is one. Sound check from six to eight. Concert from nine to midnight. Breakdown until one or two. He walks home.

It's a crepuscular rhythm. He peaks at dusk and in the first hours of the night, when most people are already thinking about dinner. Bruno at that hour is just getting started. The same week might bring an Algerian oud trio on Monday, hardcore punk on Wednesday, and an industrial techno DJ set on Saturday. Which did he prefer? The one that sounded best. In summer it's a different Bruno: windows open, festivals on the Mediterranean circuit — Barcelona, Cádiz, Salonica — and long routes along the corniche at eleven at night. In winter, the sweatshirt makes more sense than ever.