He likes what he sees. He thinks of the fabulous day ahead, but before stepping out he grows serious. At his level, you don’t have too many friends. Oliver is an Austrian jewelry designer—and that detail matters. When you step outside here, you tread on two millennia of cultural wealth. Under the Habsburgs, in the 18th century, this city counted citizens like Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven. In the 19th, Strauss II. In the 20th, Gustav Klimt. Enough to drive anyone mad. And for the mad: Sigmund Freud.

Oliver breathes all of that in on his way to the studio. He’s a renowned jewelry designer: he does whatever he wants. He doesn’t mingle with mediocrity. One look at his face and you see someone who’s punted the can down the road. The guild recognizes his exquisite craftsmanship and his bespoke designs. What he loves most are engagement rings, wedding bands. He’s no fool—he knows someone in love will pay anything for a smile.

As you’d expect, Oliver is also a raging perfectionist. He has to uphold his personal myth. A story he tells himself in his idle hours, polishing and layering it. He’s prouder of it than his mother and grandmothers combined. Those inner monologues happen in German—a language that doesn’t indulge in nonsense. When you design in German, you get Mercedes, Audis, Porsches.