An Abundant Amount of A
A week spent inside the Anthony Amadeo archive, editing Ahmad, Adam, Andres, Andreas, Ali, Aja, Adrian—and an almost absurd number of additional A’s.
A week spent inside the Anthony Amadeo archive, editing Ahmad, Adam, Andres, Andreas, Ali, Aja, Adrian—and an almost absurd number of additional A’s.
After writing about the subtle differences between two photographs taken only a few frames apart, I kept editing.
And editing.
And editing.
The deeper I went into my old shoots, the more I began to realize the sheer number of people I have photographed. Faces, bodies, gestures, personalities, passing expressions, accidental movements and entire little worlds have accumulated inside my archive. Some shoots I remember perfectly. Others return to me one frame at a time.
In an attempt to give this enormous archive some kind of order, I decided to begin with something simple: the alphabet.
More specifically, the letter A.
Surely, I thought, I could spend a few days going through the models whose names begin with A, finish the group and then continue on to B.
That was adorable.
One full week later, I was still inside the A’s.
Ahmad. Adam S. Andres. Andreas. Ali. Aja. Adrian J. Adam R. Adam M. Arthur. Abneudy. Aaron M. Aidan. Amaury. Antonio C. Aaron B. Andrew. Airon. Ahseem. Adrian A. Ace. Austin. Antonio P. And somehow, Aaron M. again.
An abundant amount of A names.
Each name opened another folder, another shoot and another version of myself as a photographer. Different apartments. Different cities. Different windows. Different qualities of light. Different ideas of beauty that I was exploring at the time.
Some portraits immediately told me what they needed. Others were more ambiguous. A slight adjustment to the grey scale could make someone appear distant or inviting. A darker crop could turn an ordinary glance into something almost cinematic. An image I had ignored years ago could suddenly feel more alive than the one I originally selected.
The archive was not asking me to simply clean it up. It was asking me to reconsider it.
A Week Consumed by A
After several days, the letter began following me outside of the computer.
Anthony Amadeo.
amadeo amadeo.
The abundance of the archive.
The apples I was eating while editing.
I started noticing A’s everywhere, as though the letter had appointed itself the creative director of my week. It appeared in names, signs, sentences and thoughts. Every activity seemed to arrive already alliterated.
I began assembling a list of my favorite A words—the ones that feel connected to the way I make photographs and art:
Abundant. Abstract. Accord. Aesthetic. Ambiguous. Audacious. Authentic. Accentuated.
They began to sound less like vocabulary words and more like instructions.
Be abundant with ideas.
Allow an image to remain ambiguous.
Make something audacious.
Accentuate what makes a person impossible to overlook.
Aim for authenticity, even when the photograph itself is a complete invention.
Eventually, I tried to create an A-based tongue twister. My answer to “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers” became something like:
amadeo amadeo asked an audacious assembly of A-named artists about angles, attitude and accidental allure.
It does not become easier to say with practice.
An Assembly of Individuals
What became most apparent while moving through these portraits was that the alphabet might organize the folders, but it cannot organize the people.
The A’s have very little in common beyond the first letter of their names and the fact that, at some point, they stood in front of my camera.
One person might offer a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in expression. Another might arrive with enough energy to alter the entire direction of the shoot. Some faces invite closeness. Others become more interesting when they remain slightly inaccessible. Some people understand a strange direction immediately. Others need to arrive at it through conversation, movement, laughter or accident.
That exchange is always part of the photograph.
The finished portrait may look still, but making it rarely is. There is talking, waiting, adjusting, reconsidering and occasionally abandoning the original idea altogether. There are the conscious directions I give and the subconscious ones the model somehow understands before I have properly explained them.
Editing all these A’s together made the archive feel less like a storage system and more like an enormous ongoing conversation.
Each portrait answers something the previous portrait asked.
Advantageous Ab-Libbing
I wanted this week to feel productive. I wanted to complete the A’s, move on to the B’s and watch the archive fall obediently into place.
Instead, the letter A expanded until it consumed the entire week.
And perhaps that was the actual assignment.
I am trying to anticipate what might come from getting all this work done: rediscovered photographs, new articles, new opportunities, a more complete understanding of what I have made and perhaps even a clearer idea of what I want to make next.
At the same time, I am learning to become more accepting of the ad-libbing of activity that comes my way.
A day begins with a plan. Then an image catches my attention. That image leads to another folder. The folder recalls a person, a place or an unfinished idea. Suddenly the intended task has transformed into something else entirely.
It can feel like distraction, but sometimes it is discovery.
This was an awesome and unexpectedly advantageous week—an alphabetical excavation through years of faces, gestures and fleeting moments. I still have not finished editing every A, but I have accepted that abundance rarely arrives neatly organized.
For now, A is for archive.
A is for attention.
A is for all the people who have allowed me to photograph them.
And somewhere inside the hard drive, the letter B is already becoming impatient.
Nocturne in the Garden
There are certain evenings that do not feel like they are happening in real time. They feel arranged. Suspended. As if every object, scent, sound, and gesture has been placed inside a small spell.
The first gathering by amadeo amadeo
There are certain evenings that do not feel like they are happening in real time. They feel arranged. Suspended. As if every object, scent, sound, and gesture has been placed inside a small spell.
Nocturne in the Garden was the first gathering by amadeo amadeo created to bring together art, scent, curation, food, drink, and atmosphere. A small evening in the backyard, surrounded by trees, spring growth, and soft green light, became a way to show what the brand is slowly becoming: not only a collection of objects, but a world built through feeling.
The idea was simple at first. Three paintings. Three incense scents. One garden.
But simplicity, when treated carefully, can become its own kind of fantasy.
The three paintings were placed throughout the lawn and trees as if they had grown there. Each one measured nearly eight feet long and only twelve inches high, a strange and narrow proportion that made them feel less like traditional paintings and more like fragments, relics, banners, or architectural remains. They leaned into the landscape, slipped between trunks, and stretched across the grass with the quiet confidence of something planted there long before anyone arrived.
Each painting was created as a synesthetic translation of one of the three house incense scents of amadeo amadeo: Rose and Clove, Geranium and Slate, and Frankincense and Tomato Leaf.
I wanted to understand what these scents might look like if they stopped being smoke and became color. What does rose become when it is not a flower, but a surface? What does clove look like when it darkens the edge of a painting? Can geranium become green without becoming literal? Can slate become texture? Can tomato leaf turn into something sharp, wet, and alive? Can frankincense stretch itself into a pale, sacred haze?
The paintings became answers without needing to explain themselves.
Near each painting, its corresponding incense burned in the grass. The smoke moved differently depending on the air, sometimes rising straight upward, sometimes bending into the trees, sometimes disappearing entirely. The paintings were not just being viewed. They were being scented. The lawn became a kind of open-air gallery where the work could be seen, smelled, and walked around. It was not about separating the senses. It was about letting them interrupt each other.
That is where amadeo amadeo feels most alive.
A visual object does not have to remain only visual. A scent does not have to stay invisible. Food can become sculpture. A drink can become an object. A backyard can become a stage. Domestic life can go beautifully rogue.
For the evening, I wanted the food and cocktail to feel just as considered as the paintings. Not catering. Not a board. Not a drink station. Something closer to a still life that had started misbehaving.
The table was built around a vintage silver platter that looked as if it had been frozen mid-collapse. It was tilted, spilling outward, as though it had just knocked itself over and released everything it had been holding. A moka pot lay overturned. Mortadella was folded in pale, soft layers like fabric. There were smelly cheeses, soft cheeses, blue-veined cheeses, crackers, smoked oysters, masago, whole fruits, vegetables, olives, grapes, and small edible interruptions everywhere.
It was decadent, but not polished. Domestic, but not obedient.
The platter became a cornucopia in the middle of losing control. Something inherited and ornate, suddenly caught in the act of falling apart. The fun of making it was in ignoring the usual rules of a charcuterie board. There are always rules for how something should be done: what belongs next to what, what is too much, what is too strange, what is not proper. But the more interesting part of creating anything is knowing when to break the rules so the thing can start speaking in your own language.
By the end of the night, the board had changed completely. It had been picked at, broken apart, rearranged by hands, appetite, conversation, and curiosity. That was part of the work too. It became less pristine and more alive the longer people gathered around it.
The cocktail followed the same logic. A dirty martini, but made surreal.
Instead of serving it as a liquid in a glass, I made a gelatin version of a classic dirty martini. A preserved martini. A cube. An olive suspended inside. Something familiar made slightly strange. It was cold, briny, absurd, elegant, and a little wrong in the best way. A cocktail turned into a relic. A martini that could be held, cut, looked at, and eaten.
That small shift—from drink to object—felt important. It turned hospitality into art direction.
Throughout the evening, there was the smell of incense, grass, cheese, smoke, brine, fruit, and spring air. The paintings lived between the trees. The food slowly collapsed into enjoyment. The martini became gelatin. The silver reflected everything. Nothing needed to be too loudly announced. The point was to let people discover.
That is what I want amadeo amadeo to be known for: the creation of moments that alter the senses and open a small door into fantasy, curiosity, and wonder. Not fantasy as escape, but fantasy as attention. A reminder that there is so much to see, taste, smell, arrange, touch, and witness if we refuse to take ordinary things for granted.
A backyard can become a gallery.
A painting can become scent.
An incense can become color.
A cheese board can become a domestic collapse.
A martini can become a cube.
A spring evening can become a ritual.
Nocturne in the Garden was the first gathering of this kind for amadeo amadeo, but it does not feel like it should be the last. It felt like the beginning of a language. A way to gather people not only around objects, but around atmosphere. Around taste. Around storytelling. Around the pleasure of seeing something familiar become unfamiliar again.
The evening brought together many of the things that amadeo amadeo is built from: creative direction, art direction, scent, painting, food, graphic design, curation, event planning, and culture. All of it working toward one feeling. One world.
And for one night, that world existed in the garden.
Paintings among trees.
Incense in the grass.
Silver on the table.
Smoke in the air.
A little fantasy, served cold.
Doug, Giant Denim, and an Impossible Puzzle
Today I photographed Doug, and the shoot unfolded exactly how you hope these days unfold—focused, fluid, and generous.
Doug, Giant Denim, and an Impossible Puzzle
Today I photographed Doug, and the shoot unfolded exactly how you hope these days unfold—focused, fluid, and generous.
Doug is a dancer, and you feel that immediately in front of the camera. There’s an innate understanding of movement, pause, and shape that can’t be taught. In the giant denim, his body did what it needed to do—stretching fabric, finding negative space, creating moments that feel both controlled and accidental. The kind of presence that makes the work better without trying to.
I was able to get deep into editing and retouching right after the shoot, which felt like continuing the conversation rather than closing it. What you see here are some of the images so far—fragments of a larger body of work that keeps evolving with each person who steps into the denim.
You can see more from this shoot (and what’s coming next) on my Instagram:
@aanthonyamadeo
And follow Doug’s work here:
@douglasburkhardt
Somewhere between exporting files and living with the images for a bit, I also made a new Impossible Puzzle.
The Impossible Puzzles are 1,000-piece puzzles made from my portraits. They’re “impossible” not because they can’t be finished—but because the white backdrops create long stretches of ambiguity. Large fields of almost-nothing. You’re forced to slow down, to look harder, to trust subtle shifts in tone and texture. It’s frustrating in the best way, and incredibly satisfying when it finally comes together.
This new puzzle comes from the Giant Denim series—and yes, it’s as challenging as it sounds.
The puzzle is available now.
I dare you to try.
• Pre-die-cut chipboard with non-edge pieces
• White metal tin box with the finished image on the lid
1000 pcs (30″ × 20″)
• Glossy finish enhances colors and makes pieces easier to clean
— Anthony
Julian — In the Studio
Julian Barbarino - An artist in the portrait studio of Anthony Amadeo
Julian Barbarino - An artist in the portrait studio of Anthony Amadeo
AA: You’ve been a figure study model for a long time. Do you remember the first time you ever stepped into that role—what pulled you toward it, and what surprised you once you were in the room?
JB: Like it was yesterday. I was 18 years old and at the end of my freshman year in college. I had a friend, Derek, and he wanted to do some photographs for his portfolio which involved body painting and I jumped right in. I think it’s like many art models get into modeling, they pose for a friend and it evolves from that. A couple of months later, because of how flexible the schedule could be for a full time student, I modeled my first figure drawing course. I have to admit it was a little awkward because I was modeling for a professor who was still teaching me in some courses and at the same time I had friends taking the course. I was incredibly nervous for that class, but what really surprised me was how natural it all seemed, as if nobody really cared that their friend was naked in front of them and that after a minute ot two it was just fine, they were focused on drawing and I was just posing.
—
AA: Figure modeling teaches a very specific awareness of the body—balance, tension, weight, negative space. How do you think that experience changed the way you move through the world outside the studio?
JB: I think I am more aware of my surroundings. I have become even more observant than I was, and I can carry several conversations at once. That second one comes from listening to students speak while I’m posing, which can be dangerous for those who speak at an earshot of me. Personality wise I haven’t changed at all from in the last 12 years since I started modeling, I’m still the introverted guy that won’t really engage in large groups, which I’m told is a little weird since I don’t have any shyness from being nude in front of 30 people.
—
AA: Watching you move during the shoot felt different—more intentional, more sculptural. When you’re posing, are you thinking like a model, like an artist, or like a material being shaped?
JB: Definitely more intentional, and I am mostly thinking like an artist, not a model. I think it has to do with modeling so long in groups where artists are drawing you from every angle, it made me incredibly aware of what others see. For a while I felt pressure to make sure that no matter what pose I do, everyone gets to do something interesting, not just the ones in front of me. So now when I’m modeling I know what is going to be on the other side from every angle, which is great for drawing sessions in groups, the artists end the session very happy and not thinking “I wish I had a better angle.” On the other hand, I do have to say I think it sometimes affects the spontaneity a session could have and I feel like I could be more relaxed.
—
AA: Where are you from, and what was your early relationship to making things? Was creativity encouraged where you grew up, or something you carved out on your own?
JB: I’m from Puerto Rico, even though I was born in Brooklyn, my family moved to the island in the late 90s and I remained there until 2020. So essentially lived my entire childhood and the early stages of adulthood there. In my family creativity was encouraged, especially from my mother’s side of the family. I remember spending summers and breaks in the town of Ciales, which is a mountain town of Puerto Rico, drawing, coloring books and doing crafts with my cousins, aside from also playing most of the day outside. I think that type of space and upbringing also encouraged us to not spend all of our time on video games and TV, and choose toys that sparked creativity and challenges. My brother would get anything for building and working o electronics like remote control car kits at RadioShack, while I would get anything to paint, draw or legos to build kits or or just make stuff up.
—
AA: Did school play a big role in shaping you as an artist, or did your real education happen elsewhere—studios, streets, sketchbooks, late nights?
JB: School played a crucial role in becoming an artist, especially High school. I took an art class in 11th grade the first one in 4 years, the teacher, Mayra Aguilar, took a huge interest in me and pushed me because she saw my potential. She would give me assignments and even donated materials for me to do the assignments, she had me read books and research artists. She eventually introduced me to my art school by giving me a private tour of it while completing my senior year, which I appreciated because at the time I didn’t think Puerto Rico had a dedicated art school, and I was mostly ready to jump to any college with a science program, which I was good at. I fell in love with the arts, and I wouldn’t be where I am today or do the things I have done if it wasn’t for Mayra’s push.
AA: You work across multiple mediums. Which ones do you return to the most, and which ones do you turn to when you’re stuck or restless?
JB: The one i feel like I always come back to is drawing. It’s how I work out most of my concepts, and use to get an idea running visually. I don’t do it as much anymore as I have been working with abstract concepts for the past year, but I do always try to get in a sketch whenever I can to keep the motor running, so to speak.
—
AA: Is there a medium that feels like “home” to you—and another that feels like a risk every time you touch it?
JB: I don’t think I have a medium the feels like home other than drawing, even then I don’t do it as much as I used to. I think working across different mediums keeps me learning, and there’s something underneath that won’t let me be comfortable with one medium and then stick with it for a long period of time. I always have this urge to change it up when working on a new idea which for is the risk for me. Trying out a new medium, most of the time learning it on my own, and trying to marry a concept with it is so difficult because I’m always trying and it doesn’t always work. But that moment you find the right one, it just feels like everything is right.
AA: What keeps you creatively alive right now—what are you feeding yourself visually, mentally, emotionally?
JB: What always keeps me creating is learning. It can be learning about history, a new medium or just plain experimenting to gain knowledge. I feel like it keeps my mind going and helps me see the bigger picture of things, especially when it comes to working on my art because it is so personal. I think vulnerability is something a lot of people aren’t comfortable with, and my work is about vulnerability, from the art I create to posing for others in the nude. There’s a certain connection that is made when you are seen without any walls. Not everyone is capable of being comfortable in front of vulnerability, and that’s where i try to sit in because It’s ok to be vulnerable. I think there’s so much we can learn about ourselves when we are.
—
AA: When creativity slows down (because it always does), what helps you reconnect—movement, music, solitude, conversation, repetition?
JB: When it slows down, I tend to take a break, and it’s not like a day or two, for me it tends to be a few weeks before I create again. In that time I’ll focus on reading, listening to music, share time with friends or even playing video games, anything to unwind and relax. When I feel ready, I can come back fresh and with new eyes, because sometimes when you work on something for too long you can’t always see the mistakes you’re making, so breaks are good and it stops me from burning out or abandoning a project.
—
AA: How does using your body—posing, holding tension, staying still—inform your art-making afterward, if at all?
JB: It tells me a lot. Most of the time when I pose I am not really present, at least for classes where I hold long poses. I’m usually thinking of my projects, I use it as “library” time, I think in my head and art classes tend to be very quiet, because everyone is so focused on their own thing, so they’re good for that. Sometimes seeing people work or seeing and artist do something can sort of spark an idea, and when that happens I feel like it’s just the environment, being in a creative space can just move things along because of the energy.
AA:. If you had to describe your creative process using only three textures, what would they be?
JB: I think I could only choose two, rough and uneven. Most of the process can be so long, and experimenting so much to find that one thing can feel like a very long process, especially when there are so many failures, and other times if feels like you found the right thing and after making a few pieces you look at it and are not “feeling” it and then you start from scratch.
—
AA: Choose one color that feels like your body and one that feels like your mind. Why those?
JB: For my body I would probably go with yellow, to me it's a color that feels like openness and comfort in a very energetic way. I think my mind would be blue, there’s a depth to what goes on, but I feel there’s trust, honesty and a calm that’s present even in the craziest moments.
—
AA: Finish this sentence:
“When I’m making something with my hands, I’m really trying to…”
JB: “… be vulnerable and honest”
AA: What are you currently working on—or quietly dreaming about making next?
JB: Right now I am working on expanding my current series “Geographical Landscapes of the Mind” which is based on damaged Polaroids but in fiber. So I am working with cotton and acrylic yarn that is then tufted or hand punched onto a cotton fabric backing known as monk cloth. Visually I recreate the frame of a Polaroid instant film exposure and then intervened where the photograph would be with degrading colors or patterns that reflect a specific emotional state based on text I had written at nights during a severe episode of depression in 2024. Each one is me pouring my all into each piece and making something that I find beautiful out of a rough time.
AA: Where can people find your work, follow along, or step into your world?
JB: Well that one is easy, you can find me in pretty much all socials under @JulianBarbarino, but Instagram is where I am active the most. Also my website julianbarbarino.com has pretty much everything I have ever done under my archive.
Mason Williams
By the end of a year, especially one packed with ideas, projects, scents, sketches, and long conversations with myself, I crave a reset. Something stripped down. Something honest. Something that reminds me why I make images in the first place.
A reset before the year turns
Mason Williams was one of the last shoots of 2025 — and that felt important.
By the end of a year, especially one packed with ideas, projects, scents, sketches, and long conversations with myself, I crave a reset. Something stripped down. Something honest. Something that reminds me why I make images in the first place.
So Mason and I decided to remove almost everything.
No clothes.
No set.
No narrative forced too early.
Just body and soul.
This shoot wasn’t about fashion in the traditional sense. There are no garments to credit, no silhouettes to dissect. And yet — this is fashion. Or at least my idea of it. The movement becomes the garment. The tension becomes the tailoring. The scribbles become the styling.
The censor marks weren’t an afterthought — they are the fashion. Graphic, imperfect, instinctual. They sit on the body the way a well-placed seam or an unexpected cutout would. They interrupt. They frame. They ask you to look again.
Mason moved like someone listening to his body instead of posing for the camera. Every shift felt intentional without being precious. There was strength, softness, hesitation, confidence — sometimes all in the same frame. I didn’t direct much. I didn’t want to. This was about allowing space for presence rather than performance.
The room was quiet.
The light was simple.
The floor creaked when he moved.
That was enough.
I keep thinking about these images as a palette cleanser — a visual deep breath before stepping into everything that’s coming next for amadeo amadeo. Bigger projects. More collaborations. More worlds being built. But before all of that, I needed to return to the body. To gesture. To the idea that fashion isn’t always something you put on — sometimes it’s something you are.
These images feel like a threshold.
A pause.
A clean page.
A reminder that at the core of all of this — photography, scent, clothing, objects, performance — is the human form moving through space, trying to be understood.
Thank you, Mason, for trusting the process and stepping into this moment with me.
Here’s to the reset.
THE NOVEMBER INVENTORY
Every year around this time, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of my own studio floor, surrounded by boxes labeled: Keep, Toss, Transform.
What I’m Carrying Into the New Year (and What I’m Leaving Behind)
The Journal — November 30
Every year around this time, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of my own studio floor, surrounded by boxes labeled: Keep, Toss, Transform.
The end of November has always been that soft threshold for me.
Not quite the end.
Not quite the beginning.
Just the moment where I pause, look around at everything I’ve made, everything I’ve tried, everything I’ve survived—and decide what’s coming with me into the next chapter.
This is my November inventory.
What I’m Carrying Forward
The world in my head
The drive to keep building the creative universe that I live in internally—and keep opening the door wider so other people can step further inside. amadeo amadeo is not just a brand; it’s a world. I’m choosing to lean into that fully.
Dadaist humor
The absurdity, the sideways jokes, the moments where things shouldn’t make sense but somehow do. Dadaism, to me, is a way of saying: I can tell the truth by breaking the rules of how truth is usually told. I’m carrying that with me in how I write, design, photograph, and perform.
Collaging in new ways
Not just paper, scissors, glue. Collaging feelings, timelines, faces, scents, archives. Analog collages, digital collages, and life collages. I’m bringing forward the urge to keep cutting things up and putting them back together in ways that tell a deeper story.
Painting as sculpture
I’m keeping the curiosity of: what even is a painting?
Layering, texturing, pulling paint across canvas like fabric, sculpting with brushstrokes, creating pleats and folds in color. Exploring color blocking not just as aesthetics, but as architecture.
Photographing fashion through abstraction
Continuing to photograph, but always with that amadeo amadeo twist: fashion as character, abstraction as truth, the body as a moving sculpture. Making images that sit somewhere between a campaign, a memory, and a glitch in reality.
Storytelling through scent
The Codex, the incense, the skin scents and rooms that smell like memory. I’m carrying forward my obsession with telling stories through top notes, heart notes, and drydowns—turning my life into olfactory chapters.
Clowning and the act of clowning
Bellamy, A. Clown, the Town Crier—the entire clown universe. I’m not leaving that behind. I’m deepening it. Clowning as a form of storytelling, as self-portrait, as emotional honesty. The clown as a mirror.
Learning through craft
I never want to sit stagnant. I’m carrying forward the commitment to keep learning—technically, emotionally, conceptually. To master things and then break the mold on purpose. To keep asking, what else can this become?
What I’m Leaving Behind
Burnout as a personality trait
I love to constantly be creating and thinking. That part I’m keeping.
But I’m leaving behind the version of myself that doesn’t know how to pause.
I want to build more space between ideas so curiosity has room to creep in instead of being chased.
Scattered ideas
My brain loves ten tracks at once. I’m leaving behind the chaos of letting each one run in a different direction with no center. I want all the different avenues—clowning, collage, fragrance, fashion, painting—to live on one path of identity. One story, many expressions.
Self-doubt and emotional clutter
I’m done carrying the heavy box of “Is this good enough?” and “Does this make sense?” My work makes sense in the way my world makes sense. That’s enough. I’m leaving behind the extra noise that tries to convince me otherwise.
What I’m Bringing In
Reinvention of the past
I don’t want to abandon where I’ve been; I want to reinvent it. I’m inviting in new ways of revisiting old work—new edits, new contexts, new mediums, new mashups. Old ideas with upgraded skins.
New scents, new collages, new worlds
More fragrances, more Codex chapters, more collage work, more layering of mediums. New explorations—geographically, emotionally, artistically. New ways of connecting people to the amadeo amadeo world.
A deeper amadeo amadeo universe
I’m calling in a richer, more immersive version of everything I’ve started: more entry points for people to step into, more continuity between the different projects, more cohesion in the chaos.
Investigation
Lots of deep digging into my past—family, memories, early work, first attempts—to understand what my future actually looks like. Letting the earlier versions of me sit at the same table as who I am now and who I’m becoming.
This is my inventory:
what stays, what goes, what’s invited in.
If you’re reading this, you’re already inside the world a little bit.
Next year, I want to pull you even further in.
— Anthony / amadeo amadeo
Why My Best Work Happens When I’m Not Looking At It
There’s a strange season that always hits me around the end of the year. It’s a kind of creative molting. Suddenly I want to drain every old file, every half-loved portrait, every forgotten RAW, and move it all into a new home. This year, that home has become my Tumblr—my private museum, my time capsule, my purgatory of past work where everything goes to live again, even if it’s only visible to people who bother to log in.
Why My Best Work Happens When I’m Not Looking At It
There’s a strange season that always hits me around the end of the year. It’s a kind of creative molting. Suddenly I want to drain every old file, every half-loved portrait, every forgotten RAW, and move it all into a new home. This year, that home has become my Tumblr—my private museum, my time capsule, my purgatory of past work where everything goes to live again, even if it’s only visible to people who bother to log in.
As I’ve been uploading my archives, something unexpected keeps happening:
I’m realizing how many images went unnoticed for years.
Images I barely glanced at when I took them.
Images I forgot existed.
Images that now—sitting in 2025 light—feel iconic.
It’s funny how my best work often waits for me.
It doesn’t yell.
It taps.
Memory Lives in the Contact Sheet
When I look at an old portrait, I remember everything from that day—more than I expect.
The weather.
The way the subject laughed through their nerves.
What we talked about in the first five minutes.
The exact second they stopped posing and started being.
I don’t shoot casually.
I put a lot of energy forward to get people comfortable as fast as possible.
To get them to open up.
To get them to step into images that might feel awkward at first—poses that look unnatural until they become art.
It takes trust.
And when someone trusts me enough to let themselves be seen, to lean into an uncomfortable position, to give me the version of them that isn’t rehearsed… that feels like the greatest gift a subject can offer.
It’s not lost on me.
I remember that trust years later, even when I barely remember the file name.
The Non-Linear Timeline of amadeo amadeo
I don’t move through my career in a straight line.
I never have.
The amadeo amadeo “timeline” is a non-linear organism—something breathing, pulsing, shifting. It’s like a giant memory map where past images suddenly make more sense in the present, and future ideas reach back to pick up pieces I left behind.
Sometimes a portrait I shot five years ago fits better next to the work I’m making now than it ever did then.
Sometimes I make something today that feels like a missing puzzle piece from 2019.
Sometimes the future asks for the past.
That’s why archiving doesn’t feel like “storage” to me.
It feels like rearranging DNA.
Digital Clutter, Digital Discovery
I only shoot digital, which means the archive is huge.
Massive.
A never-ending scroll of unused frames and alternative angles the models can grab for their books.
The blessing and the curse of digital photography is that I always shoot more than I ever need.
But that also means there are thousands of moments that never saw daylight.
And now, going through everything with new eyes, I’m realizing the overlooked frames are sometimes the most honest ones.
The blink.
The half-turn.
The breath before the pose.
Back then, they felt too raw.
Now, they feel like the point.
It makes me wonder how many other “unseen” parts of my life are waiting for me to come back to them with more patience and a different perspective.
The Work Ages With Me
The archive is aging like a living thing.
And I’m aging with it.
Sometimes I think I’m revisiting old work… but the truth is, the work is revisiting me.
Calling me out.
Reminding me of ideas I never followed.
Whispering new directions.
Showing me what I didn’t have the eyes for back then.
Maybe that’s why my best work happens when I’m not looking at it.
Because sometimes I’m too close to see it clearly in the moment.
Sometimes the image needs time.
Sometimes I need time.
This season of re-uploading, revisiting, and re-seeing has been unexpectedly grounding.
It’s reminding me why I do what I do.
It’s showing me the threads that have always been there—portraits, faces, trust, tension, vulnerability, the ability to build comfort quickly, the quiet intimacy between artist and subject.
And it’s reminding me that the work is far from over.
If You Want to Explore the Archive
You can see the ongoing upload process on my Tumblr—if you’re logged into Tumblr, that is.
(You’d think it was 2009 the way the platform makes you enter the gates.)
But if you do choose to look, here’s my request:
Find one image that speaks to you and tell me the first story it reminds you of.
No overthinking.
Just instinct.
The best ways into the future always start with revisiting the past.
— Anthony / amadeo amadeo
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.
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.)
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.
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.
The return of A. Clown?
A. Clown hasn’t been seen in some time. He didn’t storm off stage, didn’t slam the door, didn’t even leave a note—he simply stepped behind the silver curtain and let the folds swallow him.
A. Clown hasn’t been seen in some time. He didn’t storm off stage, didn’t slam the door, didn’t even leave a note—he simply stepped behind the silver curtain and let the folds swallow him.
Once upon a time, I wore his face. Painted on a new mood every time. Sometimes a whisper, sometimes a scream. He lived in portraits, in paintings, in the way people’s eyes darted between fascination and discomfort. You either loved him or you couldn’t look at him. That’s the magic of a clown. That’s the danger of one, too.
But clowns aren’t built to vanish entirely. They hide in the air between you and the mirror. They hide in mylar wrinkles that turn a reflection into a puzzle. They hide in balloon animals—small, strange sculptures that carry a joke only the clown knows.
These portraits are a way to keep him close without summoning him fully back. Each face here is a flicker of him: the tilt of a head, the curve of light, the way a shadow smiles even when the lips don’t. The clown is still here. He’s just watching from behind the shimmer.
Now the question is—do you see him?
Giant Jeans
A short reflection on scale, shape, and the feeling of not fitting in. A written piece from Anthony Amadeo—before the images, just the words.
They don’t fit. They belong.
By Anthony Amadeo
Published in The Journal
There was a pair of jeans.
They arrived uninvited.
No tag. No origin. No proof of purchase.
Only folds. Only volume.
They hung like silence.
They draped like history.
They did not fit.
Which, in many circles, would be considered failure.
Tailors whispered. Stylists measured.
Photographers blinked.
They tried to make sense of the scale.
“Who are they for?”
“Where are the darts?”
“Should we hem them?”
The answer was no.
The answer was not now.
The answer was: they already are.
You see, the Giant Jeans weren’t made to flatter.
They were made to frame.
They weren’t worn to impress.
They were worn to exist.
Not a fit—an environment.
Not a garment—a gesture.
They moved through light like a second shadow.
They swallowed knees, hugged air, trailed behind like stories.
No one knew how to wear them “correctly.”
And yet, every body they touched looked... correct.
People began to talk.
Theorists. Teenagers.
Former models turned archivists.
They said the jeans weren’t real.
They said the photos were fake.
They said no one would make jeans that didn’t fit.
But they were wrong.
Or they were right.
Or both.
Because maybe the point was never to fit.
The campaign, if we’re calling it that, isn’t about jeans.
It’s about proportions that don’t apologize.
It’s about shape without shame.
It’s about showing up exactly as you are—too big, too loud, too much—and realizing:
You belonged here the whole time.
You were the fit.
Let the others tailor themselves into silence.
Let them cinch and compress and conform.
Let them ask what size you wear.
You don’t answer.
You walk.
In Giant Jeans.
Moving like a fact.
Unfolding into the space that was always yours.
Photography + Art Direction by Anthony Amadeo
@anthonyxamadeo | @amadeoxamadeo
This is not a campaign. This is a confirmation.
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.
Introducing George Maragkos
There’s a presence in the room before the shutter clicks.
George Maragkos—striking, sharp, and unmistakably cinematic—moves through frame with the ease of someone who’s been here before, even if this is just the beginning.
the first face of amadeo amadeo
There’s a presence in the room before the shutter clicks.
George Maragkos—striking, sharp, and unmistakably cinematic—moves through frame with the ease of someone who’s been here before, even if this is just the beginning.
In his debut session with amadeo amadeo, George arrived dressed in all black: pleated trousers, a leather jacket, a tailored blazer—clothing that clung to the light and carved out drama in the shadows. His Greek features carried the weight of myth, but his gestures were thoroughly modern: abstract, fluid, intentional.
We worked through reflections, distortions, and movement. At every turn, George didn’t just pose—he acted, reacted, told. A face not just for fashion, but for storytelling.
These first portraits mark the beginning of a portfolio designed to not only impress, but to mesmerize. He is the prototype of what we’re cultivating here: presence, poise, and personality.
Welcome George Maragkos, the first of many to come.
"All This Time, I Thought 'Art is a Bunch of BS' Meant Balloon Sculptures"
For years, I nodded along when people would dismissively mutter, "Art is just a bunch of BS."
And for years, I genuinely thought they meant Balloon Sculptures.
For years, I nodded along when people would dismissively mutter, "Art is just a bunch of BS."
And for years, I genuinely thought they meant Balloon Sculptures.
I imagined an entire secret society — one where artists twisted latex into abstract forms, floated their rebellion into the sky, and let the world misunderstand them entirely. To me, BS stood for an entire movement. It wasn’t an insult — it was a misunderstood compliment.
So I’ve decided to lean into it.
Introducing a new series: Balloon Sculptures — an earnest tribute to misunderstanding, miscommunication, and the beautifully absurd.
Each piece will be hand-twisted, hung, documented, and mythologized. A soft rebellion in thin air. Fragile, fleeting, and just serious enough to confuse you.
In a world that demands you defend your work with dissertations, I’m choosing to float a balloon.
And when they call it BS — they’ll be absolutely right.
- Anthony Amadeo, Amadeo Amadeo
THE NUMBERS THAT KNOW YOU
The black-and-white images recently leaked from the studio of Anthony Amadeo appear—at first glance—to be nothing more than striking portraits, poetic in their stillness, echoing the sculptural tension of classicism reimagined for a modern mythology. But to those who’ve looked deeper... something else has emerged.
THE NUMBERS THAT KNOW YOU
Are These Photocopies a Message From Beyond the Frame?
By An Observer of the Obscure
The Journal, Vol. I | Amadeo Amadeo Archives
“There are no coincidences—only coordinates waiting to be noticed.”
The black-and-white images recently leaked from the studio of Anthony Amadeo appear—at first glance—to be nothing more than striking portraits, poetic in their stillness, echoing the sculptural tension of classicism reimagined for a modern mythology. But to those who’ve looked deeper... something else has emerged.
Each photograph is overlaid with a grid of handwritten numbers—disorganized, looping, duplicated, circled, crossed out. Seemingly random. But nothing in the Amadeo Codex is ever random.
According to an anonymous source (who once claimed to have worked with the artist during a full moon in Florence), these images are not photographs—they’re receivers. And the numbers? They’re not annotations. They’re transmissions.
THE GEOSMIN THEORY
One image—titled only “Geosmin”—sent shivers through numerologists and ex-CIA codebreakers alike. “Geosmin” is the molecule that causes the smell of earth after rain... but why label a photocopy of a boy in oversized jeans with this word?
If you map the numbers across the faces, torsos, and arms, they align with ancient acupuncture meridians. One theory posits that Amadeo’s images are somatic charts for emotional memory—each number a timestamp tied to a forgotten personal truth.
What were you doing at 33?
What happened to you on the 12th?
Why do you always wake up at 3:37 a.m.?
We asked 57 people (note: a frequently appearing number) to randomly select one number from each image. 83% reported immediate recollections tied to that number—an age, a date, an address, a dream they’d forgotten until that moment. Coincidence? Or... recognition?
MULTIPLES OF MEANING
Some numbers reoccur across the images: 37, 53, 50. Are they codes? Coordinates? Or countdowns?
Photographic analysts suggest the repetitions create a pattern of activation—a trigger sequence for something not yet understood. There is evidence these photos were passed under red light at 3:00 AM for 7 nights in a row before being photocopied. Rumors suggest Amadeo used a Soviet-era duplicator found in a shuttered print shop in Bushwick.
Another theory states that these are calibration values for a non-human gaze—numbers that tell extraterrestrial observers where to focus when trying to decode human beauty.
ARE YOU PART OF THE EXPERIMENT?
What happens when you stare at the numbers?
Some claim these images shift in your periphery. That the numbers rearrange themselves. That your favorite number appears in a different spot each time.
One viewer reported dreaming of the numbers—waking with the imprint of “50” on their inner wrist. Another claims they saw their birth date, phone number, and childhood home’s address hidden across all four images.
So we ask you:
Do you see your number?
Do you know what it means?
And if not—why is it still following you?
Jamil: From Barcelona to NYC, Captured in Motion
AA: Jamil, it was such a pleasure photographing you during your visit to NYC!
Your profile is incredible to photograph, and you brought such a strong energy to the shoot. How was the experience for you, especially being part of the giant denim jeans series?
AA: Jamil, it was such a pleasure photographing you during your visit to NYC!
Your profile is incredible to photograph, and you brought such a strong energy to the shoot. How was the experience for you, especially being part of the giant denim jeans series?
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JM: Thanks a lot for your words! It’s always interesting for me to hear about how people perceive my energy. It shows me different ways to look at myself that I usually don’t think about. I really enjoyed the shoot. It felt to me more like a casual conversation between 2 people talking about who they are, their aspirations and how they see the world.
AA: You currently reside in Barcelona—a city I’ve always wanted to visit.
What’s life like there for you? Can you share a bit about the culture, the architecture, and the food? What makes it feel like home?
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JM: Barcelona is the people, the beach, the vibes. It’s a place where people come to live life.
At least that’s what Barcelona is for me.
I travel often and even though I fall in love with every new place I discover, in the back of my mind I’m always longing to be back in Barcelona. It’s the place where I feel home.
It has such a rich and diverse culture that whatever your interests are you will find it here.
AA: Beyond modeling, what’s your world like?
Tell us a bit about the work or passions you focus on outside of the camera lens. What inspires you creatively in your day-to-day life?
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JM: Outside modeling I’m a design geek, I work on designing softwares, apps and digital tools. I enjoy swimming a lot, being in nature, you will always find me on the beach in winter and in summer. I’m inspired by cultures, I love discovering new cultures and witnessing how people from different cultures live.
AA: During the shoot, I gifted you some of my incense No. 1.
Have you had a chance to try it? How do you like the scent, and do you enjoy incorporating elements like fragrance into your personal space or routines?
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JM: Scent for me is related to memory. A memory of a childhood moment, a place I like or a person dear to me. Trying your incense reminded me of some of the conversations we had during the shoot. I loved how scent was a medium where you channel your creativity.
Personally I gravitate more toward natural, earthy, and subtle scents.
AA: Barcelona has such a rich creative energy.
Do you feel like living there influences your sense of style or creativity? Are there any places in the city—maybe a favorite spot or hidden gem—that you’d recommend for inspiration?
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JM: For sure, as someone who loves discovering and experiencing places, any place can influence my style. Barcelona’s laid back and effortless vibes are definitely present in my style.
Not very hidden but of course the beach is my favorite spot for inspiration and creativity (By now you can see a pattern). Especially during the early mornings where life is still slow and idle, and during sunset hours where life is going back to its balanced rhythm.
AA: Shooting you was such a great experience, and I’d love to do it again.
If we were to collaborate on another shoot, what kind of concept or vibe would you love to explore? Something bold, experimental, or more pared down and intimate?
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JM: One of the reasons I enjoy modeling is because I get to shoot different concepts and explore different vibes. I would definitely love to shoot something experimental and maybe with different artistic mediums.
AA: Finally, where can people keep up with you?
Do you have any projects, work, or creative endeavors coming up that you’d like to share?
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JM: I’m actually very excited for 2025! Last year was all about laying the foundation for my growth, both as a model and as a person. Now, I feel ready to embrace this next phase and take things to the next level.
While I can’t talk about all the projects at the moment, there’s so many endeavors that I’m personally looking forward to. With modeling, I’m planning on heading to Paris later in the year and see where that takes me.
I’m excited and very curious what this new phase will bring me. people can keep up with me on my ig @jamilwins where I’ll be sharing more details on the go.
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.
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.
A Symphony of Collages and Queries: Day 15
Dawn unfurled with the usual urgency; my retouching station beckoned. Prints lay scattered like leaves, each one a prelude to destruction and rebirth through collage. Ripping, tearing, reassembling—today was a day for creating chaos that begets beauty.
Dawn unfurled with the usual urgency; my retouching station beckoned. Prints lay scattered like leaves, each one a prelude to destruction and rebirth through collage. Ripping, tearing, reassembling—today was a day for creating chaos that begets beauty.
An unexpected free morning—my first model canceled. I diverted this gift of time towards olfactory exploration, weaving through the streets to fragrance boutiques, punctuating the journey with a ritualistic espresso, savoring the bitter liquid as it echoed the crisp morning air.
Lunch in hand, I returned, setting the stage for Tom's arrival. Our shoot unfolded like a choreographed dance, denim layers fluttering in orchestrated tumult, the camera capturing every ripple. These images whispered of potential—each a candidate for the collage that would later frame their energy in stillness.
Post-shoot, I found solace and inspiration at the Gagosian, where Bennett Miller's pigment prints of AI-generated art challenged the definitions of creativity. His work—a puzzle of prompts and pixels, paintbrushes and perceptions. What, then, is the artist? A conductor of commands to machines or mediums?
Wandering home, the city's palette blurred into philosophical musings. What is art? Is it the direction, the construction of scenes, the prompts that evoke thought or action? My art spans mediums, reliant on the dialogue between creation and response, the trust implicit in the exchange of ideas. Trust—the invisible thread that binds the artist to the audience, as crucial as the stroke of a brush or the click of a shutter.
My work, a world—an ecosystem of interactions, expressions, and experiments. Art isn't confined to canvases or concert halls; it's the cashmere casually draped, the scent that lingers, the gaze that captures. It's the mundane made magical through the artist's lens.
Tonight, as I ponder the porous boundaries of art and life, I wonder: Is living not a form of art? Is art not a way of living? In this world—my world—each moment is a brushstroke on the expansive canvas of existence.
Let us not just create art. Let us live artfully, embracing the chaos, the calm, and the infinite canvases yet unmarked.
Is living, art? Is art, living? Indeed, perhaps they are one and the same, each breath a stroke of genius, every day a masterpiece unfolding.
Lemons, Threads, and the Art of Encounter: Day 13
Dawn cracks, a lemon slice of sun through the Parisian haze. Emails float like driftwood in the digital sea, preparing me for the day’s creative tide. Mariia arrives at eleven, her presence a fresh breeze. We paint with light and shadows, lemons punctuating the canvas of our shoot, their citrus brightness slicing through the monotone.
Dawn cracks, a lemon slice of sun through the Parisian haze. Emails float like driftwood in the digital sea, preparing me for the day’s creative tide. Mariia arrives at eleven, her presence a fresh breeze. We paint with light and shadows, lemons punctuating the canvas of our shoot, their citrus brightness slicing through the monotone.
A croissant intermission, then Anais sweeps in at one. Our studio turns theatre; draped fabrics and oversized garments dance around her form, lemons once again stealing scenes. Each portrait a dialogue between texture and zest.
Post-shoot Paris beckons—a wanderlust woven through the streets. LR3 store emerges like a verse in the city’s poem, its fabrics the lyrics, Louis Rubi the poet. We converse in textures and hues, each piece I try on adds a line to today’s stanza. Departing with a wish list longer than my arm, I tumble into Chachi. Serendipity dances us around our shared memories of NYC, a brief choreography of catch-up.
Evening draws me back to my sanctuary, the retouching screen awaits—a sea of pixels to navigate. Images now begin their migration to Tumblr, digital breadcrumbs for the curious to follow. Meanwhile, the Codex Fragrances simmer in my mind, their stories fermenting, ready to be distilled into words and scents. Have you wandered through their narratives on my website? Each fragrance a chapter, each scent a character.
As night cloaks Paris, my thoughts turn to formulas—alchemy at my fingertips. The more you look, the more unfolds. What tales will these concoctions tell? What memories will they invoke?
Stay tuned, for the essence of today brews in the vials of tomorrow. And remember, in this city of lights, shadows, and infinite stories, every moment is a doorway to a new labyrinth.
What's your favorite fragrance story?