Anthony Amadeo 11/11/25 Anthony Amadeo 11/11/25

Samuel by Anthony Amadeo

This series was created with Samuel, signed to The Lions.
Photographing him was effortless—he carries a quiet strength and elegance that immediately translated into something sculptural.

After the shoot, I turned the images into a set of analog collages. I love the process of cutting, layering, and reconfiguring—turning one image into two, and two into one. These pieces became about reflection, duality, and energy. Samuel’s presence—calm yet powerful—made the work come alive.

There’s something about collage that always feels like movement captured mid-thought. It’s part instinct, part accident, and all rhythm.

(Series photographed and collaged by Anthony Amadeo for amadeo amadeo.)

Anthony Amadeo 11/10/25 Anthony Amadeo 11/10/25

The Twin Collages — Ronnie & Adam Levi

There’s something about twins that’s always fascinated me — maybe because I am one. There’s an invisible mirror that exists between two people born at the same time, and it’s impossible to look at one without catching a glimpse of the other.

This series features Ronnie and Adam Levi — twins who share a likeness so strong it feels cinematic, and yet, when photographed separately, their differences become magnetic. I photographed them individually, studying how they each inhabited their own space — the tilt of a head, a glance, a posture. Then I began to collage the images together, blending their forms into one analog body.

The process became a game of identity and symmetry — pushing, cutting, reassembling — until they began to merge into something that felt both familiar and strange. Each collage reveals a dialogue between them: the parts that align perfectly, and the edges that refuse to.

It was fun and instinctual, but it also stirred something deeper — memories of growing up with my own twin. That constant dance of wanting to be different even though you’re cut from the same photograph. There’s an odd beauty in sharing a life that’s both shared and separate.

These collages live in that space — where sameness and individuality overlap. Two people, one portrait.

Anthony Amadeo 6/21/25 Anthony Amadeo 6/21/25

amadeo amadeo: The Journal (SUMMER ISSUE)

The Summer Issue is a sun-soaked archive of memory, body, scent, and image. From portraits that bloom like plants to fragrances that bottle heat and longing, this issue is a garden grown from nostalgia and stretched into modern myth. Featuring editorial collage, recipes, soap, and spoken moments for hot days and cool shadows.

Anthony Amadeo 2/2/25 Anthony Amadeo 2/2/25

A Tapestry of Scents and Secrets: Day 25

In the dwindling days of this Parisian saga, each moment distills into a cryptic concoction, a question posed in the language of creation. What tales do these streets whisper into the vials of my forthcoming fragrances? Each essence a chapter, every note a narrative—10 fragrances, 10 stories, 10 invitations to delve deeper into the world of Amadeo Amadeo.

Yes, the answer is always yes. Can the essence of Paris be captured in a bottle? Yes. Can a scent translate the texture of rain on cobblestones or the rustle of leaves along the Seine? Yes. Are these concoctions reflections of past journeys or premonitions of tales yet untold? Yes.

The Codex awaits its next chapter, a collection poised on the brink of becoming. What will these next 10 fragrances hold? Stories from days draped in history, or visions of futures yet to unfold? Are they echoes of events never occurred, figments of Paris dreamed in the depth of night?

Yes, they are all this and more—fragments of fabric torn from the reality of Parisian days and nights, stitched together with the thread of imagination. They are invitations to wander, to wonder, to inhale deeply the essence of a city that never truly reveals itself all at once.

Consider this an invitation, a prompt whispered across the ocean, across the web of connectivity that binds us: Yes. Dive into the surreal, embrace the narrative sewn from this month of artistic fervor. Yes, join me in the final act of this Parisian play of fragrances and feelings.

And for those who have journeyed with me, watched the days unfold and the collages grow, there is something more. A hidden easter egg lies within the tapestry of these posts—can you find it? Recall a detail, a hidden moment captured in these entries, and reach out. Email me at studio@anthony-amadeo.com with your discovery, and receive an exclusive behind-the-scenes glimpse of the collage creation, a video diary of the unseen process that will soon breathe life into new artistic realms.

So, pause for a moment, reflect on what has been shared, and ponder what lies ahead. What stories will the next 10 fragrances tell? What secrets do they hold, ready to be unraveled by those daring enough to ask, to listen, to inhale?

Yes, the end of this Paris journey is near, but the adventure, the creation, the revelation—this is only just beginning.

Remember the photographs of round door knobs, the talks of circles and roundabouts, and even the shape of the easter egg itself—all hinting at our hidden word. If you've followed along and spotted these clues, let me know the magic word: (check the image caption above)

Anthony Amadeo 2/1/25 Anthony Amadeo 2/1/25

A Carousel of Creation: Day 24

Awakened before dawn, I ventured forth—across the Seine, to the pulse of Paris waking. The morning called for a whimsical visit to Café du Clown. A. Clown surfaced, mischief in tow, craving the playful side of the Parisian palette.

Amidst the lively thrum of the open air markets, a symphony of stimuli awaited: vibrant produce, aromatic meats, glistening seafood, bursts of floral hues. Every sense engaged, a cascade of colors, textures, and scents—a banquet laid out under the awakening sky.

My internal hard drives spin, nearing capacity, each step through the city, each scent and sight, etching deeper into memory's canvas. Countless cafés whispered past, each espresso a pulse in my veins, every croissant and baguette a soft echo of Paris itself.

In an impulsive flourish, I gathered flowers, their petals ready to bask in the rare sunlight slicing through retreating clouds. A quick photoshoot with Arman unfurled, the new suit donned, becoming part of the day's narrative.

Post-shoot, my thoughts scrambled for order, a mental catalogue demanding to be filled and filed. Ideas churned, poised on the brink of creation—collages whispering to be born from the chaos.

Exhaustion tugs at my limbs, a physical echo of the mental marathon. Yet, the creative current surges, relentless. I am a conduit overflowing—notebooks brimming, pens draining, the need for more hands, more tools, more canvases to capture the torrent of visions.

Evening found me with Joanne, immersed in the ambient pulse of a listening party. The club—a cavern of sounds and silhouettes, light weaving through smoke, crafting ephemeral tapestries in the air. Again, the senses overwhelmed, inspiration drawn from every note, every shadow.

Earlier, the solitude of my tiny room witnessed the intimate dance of light and flowers, textures whispered to textiles, patterns promising future garments. These visions, these fleeting moments, I imagine them reborn as silk shirts, as art draped over moving forms.

Night deepens; the editing and retouching marathon continues. Portraits, places, textures—each image a thread in the broader tapestry of this Parisian sojourn. My mind races to keep pace with the burgeoning archive, desperate to translate sensation into form, to pin down the ephemeral before it fades.

Lists form, tasks mount—there is a universe to construct, a culture to curate within the boundless realms of Amadeo Amadeo. Every image, every scent, every tactile experience is a building block of something grander, a narrative stitched from the fabric of this city, of this journey.

What am I creating? A world. How and for whom? With urgency, for the eyes and hearts that will know to look deeper, to feel the undercurrents of each piece. This creation is not merely for display—it is an invitation to delve, to discover, to feel the pulse of my artistic heart.

Tonight, I do not just create—I unleash; not merely images or scents or fabrics, but the essence of an experience, the soul of a creator touched by the magic of Paris.

Anthony Amadeo 1/29/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/29/25

Glossary for 'Paris Paris' Collages by Amadeo Amadeo: Day 21

Juxtaposition [ˌjʌk.stə.pəˈzɪʃ.ən]
n. A harmony of contradictions; where ancient cobblestones meet the fleeting shadow of a modern wanderer, both claiming the same moment in time yet centuries apart.

'Paris Paris' Collages Glossary

Juxtaposition [ˌjʌk.stə.pəˈzɪʃ.ən]
n. A harmony of contradictions; where ancient cobblestones meet the fleeting shadow of a modern wanderer, both claiming the same moment in time yet centuries apart.
Luxury [ˈlʌkʃ.ər.i]
n. The art of savoring the commonplace; like the ballet of Parisians cradling their baguettes under their arms, each a scepter ruling the mundane walk home.
Ephemera [ɪˈfɛmərə]
n. The immortal traces of fleeting moments; the peeling posters and torn flyers that dress the city's walls, each layer a silent testament to the city's unending dialogue with time.
Silhouette [ˌsɪluˈɛt]
n. The outline of a city defined not by buildings, but by the spaces between where light meets dark, crafting stories in the gaps of what is seen and unseen.
Chiaroscuro [ˌkiːɑːrəˈskjʊəroʊ]
n. The dance of light and shadow across Parisian facades, where each shadow deepens the story and each highlight narrates a day’s joy or a night’s sorrow.
Fragrance [ˈfreɪɡrəns]
n. Invisible threads weaving through the city, stitching together scenes with the scent of rain on warm pavements or the faint perfume trailing from a stranger's scarf.
Orchestra [ˈɔːr.kɪ.strə]
n. The soundscape of the city; from the cacophony of traffic to the lilt of spoken French at a café, orchestrated not by a conductor but by the day itself.
Canvas [ˈkæn.vəs]
n. Paris itself, where every street, every face, every burst of wind against café curtains paints its own story, waiting for an artist to frame it.
Alchemy [ˈæl.kɪ.mi]
n. The transmutation of everyday Paris into art; turning golden hour light into painted strokes, or the hum of the Metro into the baseline of life’s soundtrack.

Anthony Amadeo 1/18/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/18/25

Echoes of Ink and Bread: Day 10

Morning spilled over with the hum of retouching, each click a chisel sculpting the digital stone of the past week's captures. A parade of faces and fragments scrolled across my screen, whispers of shutter snaps echoing in the pixels. I shaped the contours of memory, distilling moments into icons for future collages.

Lunch was a choreography of flavors—frittes sizzled, mushrooms sighed in butter, and camembert surrendered to the heat, a mélange that reset my senses. I chewed through the crisp, the soft, the earthy, and the rich, each bite a full stop in the sentence of my morning marathon.

Post-meal, the city beckoned for a walk—a palate cleanser for the mind. I drifted through covered passageways, those corridors of yesteryear where time pools in the corners like spilled ink. Each shop was a letter in an alphabet I longed to decipher: print shops with their inky fingers, stamp shops pressing history into paper, bookstores cradling the dusty spines of forgotten words.

Details layered upon details, a visual recursion. My eyes, hungry for the unscripted, devoured the scenery—each passageway a narrative arc, each archway a portal to chapters unwritten.

Ascending the hill, Le Pain Retrouvé beckoned with its yeasty embrace. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of baked heritage. Panettone dangled like chandeliers, focaccias like tiled mosaics, croissants twisted like golden question marks. I left with a quiche, its warmth promising comfort.

Evening fell like a curtain. Graphic design awaited, the screen a canvas for collages yet unborn. Fragrance bottle sketches spread across the table, their lines and curves tentative sketches of future vessels. My apartment—a studio of scents and sights, where art is born not from oil or acrylic, but from pixels and dreams.

Tonight, part of this tale will be handwritten, a script of loops and lines that dance between the digital and the tangible. The pen, an extension of thought, spills across the page—a visual whisper of the day’s echoes.

Anthony Amadeo 1/12/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/12/25

Sequences, Sounds, and Sandwiches: Day 4

The day began with a shot of espresso, hot and black, as if to remind me that the day too would be sharp, woody, animalic. Grand Musk clung to my skin like a whisper, blueberry dancing somewhere in the shadows. A warm scent for a cold morning. Out the door, into the city, and into the question: What am I collecting today? Collage pieces for a canvas unseen, textures, sounds, and sequences spiraling into the folds of my mind.

But first, panic: I’ve left my camera charger in New York. A missing fragment in today’s sequence. Where will I find it? I’ll let the city decide.

Thrift stores became my altar. Paris did not disappoint. A Euro Disney costume shirt—a relic, a poem, a puzzle. I’ll shoot my model in this. Then, a window: giant denim, the exact jeans I’ve been searching for. A shrine to oversized dreams, closed for now, but its memory will return tomorrow.

Cafés lined the streets, each chair a soldier in perfect formation. Shearling pelts draped over backs, blankets folded neatly for the cold. The seafood markets shimmered: orange scallops, black mussels, sea urchin spilling gold from their mouths. The palette of the ocean laid bare: metallic blacks, milky whites, raw ambers. The rows of shells were cabaret posters in disguise, a lineup of legs ready to kick into the night. Photograph the legs, I remind myself. A mental note for later.

A piano interrupted my sequence. Its sound was liquid, flowing around the corner like honey. A baby grand on the street. A man playing it, keys moving like dominoes, each one triggering another thought: Who put this here? What is it saying? Why is it art? My stomach growled its approval, and I moved on to find food.

The sandwich shop was a hut, a shrine to hunger. Stacks of baguettes stood like little skyscrapers. Quiches, golden and steaming, lined up in perfect geometry. I pointed, the vendor read my mind, and I walked out with both—a baguette sandwich and quiche, food for my stomach, art for my taste buds. The mustard hit first, a jolt of spice that made my knees buckle. I sat on the street like a poet in ecstasy, chewing metaphors.

Then, Pompidou Centre, a machine disguised as a building. Tubes and lines and repetition, art within art, as if the structure itself were trying to outdo the works it contained. I thought of Fibonacci spirals, geometric sequences, the rhythm of a day. Everything lined up, repeating like a mantra.

Perfumer H beckoned next, a temple of scent. “Dandelion” smelled like spring’s ghost; “Dust,” like the echo of a forgotten room. Archive scents whispered their secrets, and I was tempted by bespoke possibilities. Fragrance as story, glass as skin, scent as identity.

Onward to Jardin du Palais-Royal, where the rows of trees whispered symmetry, and the iron gates hummed repetition. The crunch of pebbles beneath my feet played percussion, matching the rhythm of my thoughts: crunch, crunch, see, see, think, think.

And then, a voice—soaring, magnetic. A street performer sang, his vocal cords weaving a spell in the crisp air. Was it opera? Cabaret? No, just Paris speaking through his. I stood still, caught in the art of sound, letting it wash over me like a tide.

The day folded in on itself as I returned to my apartment, where I sat to write, to think, to see see see see see all that had transpired. A day of rows and rhythms, of sequences and sounds. A puzzle made of baguettes, piano keys, and sea urchins.

Tomorrow, the city will hum again, and I will follow its tune.

Anthony Amadeo 12/23/24 Anthony Amadeo 12/23/24

Proper Mad, Isn’t It? My London Tales of Collage and Chaos

Sitting on my balcony every morning with my coffee and breakfast, I’d wait for the models to arrive, ready to capture them in the studio. Those moments—quiet, creative, and full of anticipation—defined my time in London. The collages that came out of this trip are deeply personal, yet they’re a testament to the universal magic of London. They combine faces, places, and moments into a chaotic yet cohesive whole that mirrors the city itself.

Each collage, its own story within the larger narrative of my London journey. Take your time. Get lost in them, just as I got lost in London.

London was always one of those places I dreamt of visiting—the culture, the history, the art scene, and yes, the brutalist architecture. January 2024 marked my first trip to the UK, and I spent nearly the entire month soaking up every bit of London that I could. What came out of that trip? 89 collages—each one a snapshot of my time there, blending the faces of the models I photographed with iconic architecture, quirky souvenirs, and the random brilliance of London itself. These collages, inspired by dadaism and surrealism, are my love letter to the city, and most of them haven’t even been shared yet. Let’s dive in.

The Studio with a View

I found an incredible penthouse studio just outside the Barbican. Perched atop an old walk-up building, it had a full glass wall that opened like an accordion to a balcony overlooking the stark, geometric brutalism of the Barbican estate. It was everything I wanted: inspiring, moody, and perfectly London. On the main floor of the building was an old-school diner serving a proper full English brekkie. Each morning, I started my day with a coffee, a crumpet with fried egg and beans, and that unbeatable view.

Walking (and Walking) Through London

Even though I was staying for a long time, I couldn’t resist spending my first day walking 22 miles around the city. From cobblestone streets to massive landmarks, I wanted to see it all. The V&A blew me away with its eclectic collection, while The Tanks at the Tate Modern felt like stepping into a space tailor-made for my aesthetic. I lingered at the Tate Britain, gobsmacked by Francis Bacon’s “Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion” for what felt like yonks. And of course, the National Portrait Gallery was a treasure trove of Tudor portraits.

Pub Culture and Fish & Chips

London’s pub culture is unmatched. One of the coolest pubs I visited was a 600-year-old gem called The Red Lion. A model I photographed mentioned she worked there, and I couldn’t believe my luck since I had packed my “Red Lion” hoodie from Los Angeles. It felt like fate. I also met up with Jasper, a mate who recently moved to London, and we did the quintessential fish-and-chips experience—a proper nosh if I’ve ever had one!

Fragrance Finds

Exploring London meant discovering new fragrances. Jovoy introduced me to Khanjar by Omanluxury, an animalic, oud-heavy masterpiece that’s now a favourite. At Harrods’ Salon de Parfums, I indulged in luxury scent heaven. The Henry Jacques boutique, especially their Harrods-exclusive “Royal Dream,” felt like stepping into olfactory royalty—iris and amber blending into something regal yet warm. Absolute bang-on, if you ask me.

Collaging in London

The models I photographed in my studio had no idea what their portraits would become. I started the editing process right there in London, finding a small local printing shop to bring my images to life. The collages began with tearing, cutting, and rearranging, channeling the random, chaotic energy of dadaism. Some were surreal, others focused on juxtaposing the human form with the stark lines of London’s architecture. A few even included souvenir postcards I picked up along the way.

Once back in the States, the real fun began. Ripping and manipulating the images further, I aimed to create works that truly embodied the essence of London—its vibrancy, grit, and charm. Video collages came next, inspired by the absurd brilliance of Monty Python, adding a playful layer to the series. You can see these on my Instagram (@Anthonyxamadeo).

Vintage Finds and Local Gems

Spitalfields and Brick Lane were vintage shopping paradises. I picked up a vintage shearling bomber from a retired vet who was selling his collection of military uniforms. We had a good chinwag, and the experience felt as priceless as the jacket itself. Borough Market became my go-to for food, especially the cheeses. I’ll never forget the orange blue cheese—absolutely lush.