The Wardrobe: A Collection of Clues
The idea for The Wardrobe has been around for a long time. Maybe longer than I realized. Turning it into something tangible has simply taken years of work, experimenting, collecting, making and figuring out how to translate something that, for most of my life, has existed primarily inside my head.
The Wardrobe is not a collection of products. It is a collection of clues.
The idea for The Wardrobe has been around for a long time. Maybe longer than I realized. Turning it into something tangible has simply taken years of work, experimenting, collecting, making and figuring out how to translate something that, for most of my life, has existed primarily inside my head.
Over the past few years I’ve also started to understand that my art isn’t just photography. It isn’t painting. It isn’t clothing, fragrance, collage or objects either.
My art is the world around all of those things.
It comes from dreams. From memories. From the way I’ve seen things since I was a little boy. The places I want to visit, the rooms I want to sit in, the people I want to surround myself with. It comes from what I see, but also from what I hear, touch and smell.
I think I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to explain that world to people.
The physical things I make and collect have become my translation tools.
A photograph can communicate one part of it. A garment can communicate another. A fragrance can describe something that neither of them can. An old silver serving piece, an ashtray, a book, a ceramic bowl or a piece of someone else’s artwork can somehow explain another small corner.
Individually, they are things.
Together, they begin to build a world.
The Wardrobe is where those things finally get to live together.
Inside The Wardrobe
There will be clothing from several different origins, but I don’t necessarily see them as separate entities.
Some pieces will simply be vintage garments that I’ve found and loved exactly as they are.
Others will pass through the amadeo amadeo studio and be reinterpreted.
That reinterpretation can be very small. An incredible jacket might have a broken button that interrupts the story I see for it, so I’ll find vintage buttons that feel more appropriate. Another piece might need embellishment. Something else might need things taken away rather than added. Proportions can change. Garments can be reconstructed, dyed, repaired or completely reconsidered.
Sometimes a piece only needs the smallest adjustment to pull it slightly inward toward the amadeo amadeo world.
Those garments will have marker tags inside identifying that they have been altered by the amadeo amadeo studio.
Then there are pieces from The Collections themselves—garments conceived and made as amadeo amadeo from the beginning, carrying their own labels and their own histories.
I like having all three coexist.
Something new beside something old. Something untouched beside something manipulated.
I don’t want to erase the age from vintage clothing. Quite the opposite.
The natural distressing, fading, wear and imperfections are often what attracted me to a garment in the first place. They show that the piece has already had a life. That is its soul.
Luxury, to me, has never meant keeping something pristine forever.
I like the idea of owning beautiful things and actually living with them until they begin to carry evidence of you too.
The Cabinet of Art & Objects
Within The Wardrobe will also be The Cabinet of Art & Objects.
This might be the part that explains my brain most clearly.
There are objects I have collected for years that are ready to be dusted off and given another life. Things I found somewhere and immediately felt connected to. Things from my own past. Heirloom pieces. Artwork. Strange little objects that made me feel like they already belonged to the world I had been dreaming about.
Why keep all of them to myself?
The Cabinet will hold antique serving pieces, catchalls, ashtrays, objects designed to hide other objects, books, incense, photography, collages, ceramics, my own artwork and work from other creatives.
And whatever else wanders in.
I want it to have the feeling of looking through someone’s home rather than browsing a perfectly categorized department.
You discover something.
You pick it up.
You wonder where it came from.
Maybe you take it home and it begins another life.
Shopping a World
I don’t necessarily see The Wardrobe as a rejection of traditional retail.
I see it as an investment in what I believe the future of retail can be.
I want shopping to become experiential again.
Instead of simply buying a thing, you can enter a lifestyle. You can experience it for a while, decide which parts resonate with you and find different ways of carrying a piece of that world home.
The Wardrobe online is the beginning of that.
Eventually, I want you to physically walk into it.
I want a brick-and-mortar amadeo amadeo showroom where you can touch the clothes, try them on, pick up the objects, smell the fragrances, look through the books, sit down and stay for a while.
Online, I can give you the image.
Eventually, I want to give you the texture.
The smell.
The sound.
The entire room.
The world itself is difficult to describe because it is built from contradictions.
It is domestic meeting futurism.
It is unapologetically stylish.
It smells like classic fragrance and stale cigarettes.
There is sharp tailoring, but somebody has already lived in it.
There is early Hollywood glamour imagined through the eyes of someone far away from Hollywood.
Beautiful things aren't protected from living. Luxury objects are used until they're falling apart.
Old things meet new ideas.
Polish meets decay.
Sentimentality meets experimentation.
Past and future exist in the same room.
For years I thought this was the world I wished I could live in.
At some point I realized I had been living in it the entire time.
I just needed to build the walls around it.
The Future Showroom
The dream is eventually to open an amadeo amadeo showroom on the East Coast and, as that world grows, another on the West Coast.
But I don’t want it to become the kind of store you visit because, I need to buy a shirt today.
I want someone to tell a friend:
You need to go see this place.
Maybe you come in and buy a jacket.
Maybe you leave with an ashtray.
Maybe a fragrance reminds you of someone.
Maybe you find a painting.
Maybe you sit there for twenty minutes and leave with nothing other than an idea.
That counts too.
Because ultimately The Wardrobe is not about filling a closet.
It is about offering an entrance.
Every garment, scent, photograph, painting, book, antique and object is another piece of the puzzle. Another clue. Another translation of something I have seen, imagined, remembered or dreamed.
And slowly, as all of those pieces come together, perhaps the world I have been trying to describe all these years becomes something you can see too.
Welcome to The Wardrobe.
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.
The Distance Between Two Frames
Recently, I have been returning to shoots I photographed nearly a decade ago. Even after all that time, there are still frames I have never fully considered. I can open an old folder and immediately feel the personality of the person I photographed. I remember whether they were shy or extroverted, cautious or theatrical. I remember the energy in the room.
On trust, direction, editing, and the strange abundance of a photographic archive.
These two photographs were made within five frames of each other. Technically, almost nothing changed. The same model, the same light, the same Mylar mirror, the same room. Yet to me, they exist in completely different worlds.
In the first image, there is a quietness. The model seems absorbed by the reflection, as though he has momentarily forgotten that I am there. The folds of the garment, the softness of his expression and the repetition of his face inside the Mylar make the portrait feel inward and almost private.
The second image has a different tension. The faces move closer together. The body is more exposed. The reflection feels less like an echo and more like another person entering the frame. It becomes intimate, slightly confrontational and more surreal. Only a few seconds separate the two photographs, but the emotional temperature has completely shifted.
This is why editing is so important to me.
Photography is often discussed as the act of taking a picture, but so much of the work happens afterward, when I return to everything that occurred during the shoot. Editing is where I decide which fraction of a second contains the energy I remember—or perhaps reveals an energy I did not fully recognize while I was shooting.
The difference might be a softened mouth, a hand moving an inch, the direction of someone’s eyes or the exact moment a reflection becomes distorted. It may be the frame before a person settles into a pose, or the one immediately after they believe the photograph has already been taken.
Color grading changes that world again. A slight adjustment in the green, the warmth of the skin or the softness of the highlights can alter the emotional language of an image. The editing is never simply about making the photograph look better. It is about deciding what the photograph is trying to say.
The Mylar mirror makes that decision especially unpredictable. It never creates the same image twice. Every movement changes its surface. A face stretches, disappears and returns. One person becomes three, then five, then something that no longer looks completely human. The portrait is constantly rebuilding itself in front of me.
Directing someone inside that environment becomes its own strange conversation.
I might tell the model, “Look at me,” but I am not necessarily asking him to look toward the camera. I may be speaking to one of his reflections. I might ask him to move toward a face that exists only inside the mirror, or to follow the version of himself that has been pulled apart by the material. Sometimes I am directing the model; sometimes I am directing his reflection.
I work instinctively when I photograph. There are cues that come out before I have had time to intellectualize them. Look here. Move your chin slightly. Hold that. Forget about me. Look at yourself. Now look through yourself.
I like to move between images in which the subject acknowledges the camera and images in which they seem completely unaware of it. That variation creates its own rhythm. The direct gaze can feel powerful, but the moment immediately beside it—the glance away, the breath, the uncertainty—can reveal something entirely different.
None of this works without trust.
A model has to trust that I am not waiting for them to look bad. They have to believe that I am paying attention, that I will recognize the moments worth keeping and that I will not abandon them inside an uncomfortable gesture. My responsibility is to make the person feel secure enough to become casual, curious and strange.
I love directing models into poses, but I also direct through conversation. I may ask someone, “If you were a color, how would that color move through the air?” The question is not meant to produce a literal answer. It is meant to interrupt the person’s awareness of posing. Their body begins to solve the question before their mind can explain it.
A good photograph requires so many things to align: the model, the photographer, the light, the conversation, the clothing, the accident, the atmosphere and the shape that appears for only a moment. All of those things cooperate for perhaps 1/60th of a second.
Then they disappear.
Editing is where I search for them again.
Recently, I have been returning to shoots I photographed nearly a decade ago. Even after all that time, there are still frames I have never fully considered. I can open an old folder and immediately feel the personality of the person I photographed. I remember whether they were shy or extroverted, cautious or theatrical. I remember the energy in the room.
In the past few months, I have added hundreds of images from my archive to Tumblr. The collection has now grown to more than 12,000 portraits.
Sometimes I worry that people will think, That again? Another portrait? Isn’t this too much? Aren’t these nearly the same image?
Perhaps I simply like abundance.
I like seeing the infinite number of expressions that exist inside one face. I like the gestures people forget they made. I like the frames that appear almost identical until you spend time with them. One photograph may show confidence; the next, made a second later, may show doubt. A mouth closes. The eyes move. The posture softens. The person briefly returns to themselves.
The differences are minute, but they are not insignificant.
Looking through the archive also allows me to see how I have changed. My earlier photographs reveal a different understanding of direction. There were periods when I wanted the subject to appear completely in control. Now I understand that I can create the feeling of their control while remaining deeply involved in constructing the image.
That is one of the central illusions of portraiture: the subject appears to possess the moment, while the photographer quietly arranges everything around it.
My editing has evolved in the same way. What my eye notices now is light-years away from what it noticed ten years ago. The photographs have not changed, but I have. Images I once overlooked suddenly feel essential. A frame does not have one permanent meaning. It waits for the photographer to become capable of seeing it.
Perhaps that is why an archive never truly becomes finished. There will always be another expression, another reflection and another fraction of a second waiting to be rediscovered.
The magic of photography is not contained in one perfect image. It exists in the multitude—in all the nearly identical moments that reveal, upon closer inspection, that nothing ever happens exactly the same way twice.
demi-beurre
For the past few years, scent has become another medium for me to tell stories.
Sometimes those stories are large and obvious. Other times they are small moments that would otherwise disappear if nobody stopped to pay attention to them.
demi-beurre began as one of those small moments.
For the past few years, scent has become another medium for me to tell stories.
Sometimes those stories are large and obvious. Other times they are small moments that would otherwise disappear if nobody stopped to pay attention to them.
demi-beurre began as one of those small moments.
When I was in Paris, my mornings were always slow. I would wake up with the sun and leave before the city was fully awake. There was something special about experiencing Paris during its preparation. Before the cafés filled, before the shops opened, before the streets became busy.
The city was getting ready for the day.
I would walk through the arrondissements and witness these tiny rituals taking place around me. Bakers preparing croissants and pastries for the morning rush. The smell of warm butter drifting from open doors. Florists bringing out buckets overflowing with mimosa flowers. Antique dealers sweeping the thresholds of their shops. A cigarette lit in the quiet of an empty street.
The French morning was coming alive.
What fascinated me most was how ordinary it all seemed to the people living it. These small actions were simply part of their routine, yet together they created an atmosphere that felt luxurious beyond anything money could buy.
One morning, I passed a man wearing a floor-length fur coat. Under one arm he carried a baguette. Between his fingers was a cigarette. In his other hand, a bouquet of flowers. As he hurried across the street he jumped over a puddle, splashing the bottom of his coat in the process.
I remember laughing to myself.
The abundance of that single moment felt almost cinematic.
Bread.
Flowers.
Smoke.
Rain.
Fur.
A city waking up.
He was probably just running errands, yet somehow it felt impossibly elegant.
That image stayed with me long after I returned home.
For months I found myself thinking about those walks and the idea that luxury often exists in places we overlook. Not in grand gestures, but in everyday experiences. The smell coming from a bakery. The first cigarette of the morning. Flowers being unloaded from a truck before sunrise.
I wanted to create something that captured that feeling.
The result became demi-beurre.
Built around notes of butter, tobacco, and mimosa flower, this limited-release incense is my attempt to package one of those mornings and bring it into the home. The warmth of freshly baked pastries. The distant trace of cigarette smoke. The brightness of flowers waiting to be arranged.
I imagine lighting one while making coffee before the rest of the house wakes up.
I imagine lighting one while reading the newspaper on a Sunday morning.
I imagine lighting one while opening the windows on the first warm day of spring.
Most of all, I imagine lighting one when you want to slow down and appreciate the small things happening around you.
The things that create an experience before we even realize they are there.
This is the first limited release incense from amadeo amadeo and a project that has been quietly developing for quite some time. I am excited to finally share it.
Over the next few weeks I will be sharing photographs from Paris alongside the packaging and development of the incense. Before its release, I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback. The scents I create are often built from memories, but they only become complete once they begin creating memories for someone else.
demi-beurre will be released in a limited quantity in approximately 3–4 weeks.
I can't wait for you to experience it.
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.
A Guide to Moving Along the River (Without Knowing Where You’re Going)
It usually starts with coffee.
Or a question.
Or someone asking you if you are something you are not.
Part I
There is a way to move through a place without deciding where you are going.
It usually starts with coffee.
Or a question.
Or someone asking you if you are something you are not.
From there, it becomes difficult to stop.
You follow a road.
The road follows a river.
The river does not ask you anything, but it keeps offering.
A chair.
A jacket.
A painting you cannot take with you.
And before you realize it, you are no longer looking for anything specific—
you are just responding.
We started somewhere near the river without saying that we were following it.
Avon, Connecticut. A coffee shop that roasts its beans in-house—The Coffee Trade—the kind of place where the air is already thick before you even order. The smell of roasting beans sits low and constant, like something alive in the room. You don’t need to ask what they do there. You can smell it before you speak.
We ordered coffee.
“Are you guys musicians?”
There was a pause. A small laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it felt accurate in a way that didn’t need correcting.
We weren’t.
But we didn’t say that.
We sat in the garden and let that question linger between us, turning it over like something we had just picked up off a shelf. There’s a moment when you realize that people are seeing something in you that you didn’t intentionally present. Or maybe you did, without knowing.
That was the first shift.
If you continue down the road long enough, something will appear.
A Goodwill.
A small thrift store.
Something that feels like it wasn’t meant to be a stop, but becomes one anyway.
We went in without expectation.
I was looking for textiles—something that could become something else. Curtains that weren’t meant to be worn. Table linens that had already lived one life. Materials for Chiddu ca tinemu. The things that we keep, even when we don’t know why yet.
We left with sheer curtains. Tablecloths. Fabric that held memory in its weight.
At the next stop, Nikko found a jacket.
A perfectly worn brown leather bomber—soft in the way that only time can make something soft. He put it on in the middle of the store. The women behind the counter watched, smiling, approving, as if they had been waiting for someone to come in and take it home.
There’s a moment when clothing stops being clothing and becomes a role.
Before the jacket: cords, a hoodie, something quiet.
After the jacket: something else entirely.
We didn’t say it out loud, but it was understood.
We were becoming more visible.
The road kept moving and so did we.
The river stayed just within reach—sometimes hidden, sometimes running parallel like a second thought. The Farmington River doesn’t demand your attention, but if you notice it once, you keep looking for it again.
We ended up in Collinsville.
An antique mall—Collinsville Antique Mall—the kind of place where time folds in on itself. Every booth a different version of someone else’s past, arranged for you to walk through.
This is where things slow down.
You start to notice details:
a brown suede rocking chair worn into itself
a tray of colorful vintage flatware, each piece slightly off from the next
a wood panel with an inlaid clown, quietly plucking the petals from a flower
The clown stayed with me longer than I expected.
Not loud. Not exaggerated. Just there.
Doing something repetitive. Waiting.
There was a painting too. Large. Oil. Flowers that felt almost too alive for the room they were in.
I wanted it.
Not in the way you want something decorative—but in the way you want something that feels like it already belongs to you.
I took a photo instead.
Some things you don’t take.
Some things you leave so they can keep existing where they are.
We walked out with an embroidered tablecloth. Flowers stitched into it carefully, deliberately. Something that would become something else later.
Again—collection, but not for keeping.
Collection for transformation.
We went home, but not really.
The body returned, but the momentum didn’t.
The fabrics came out immediately—laid across surfaces, held up to light, pulled, folded, tested. I wanted to see how they moved before they became anything permanent. There’s a moment before creation where everything is still possible, and it’s almost better to stay there.
That feeling doesn’t last long.
It turned into something else quickly—
paintings, collages, sewing.
An urgency.
The kind where you feel like if you don’t make something now, it might disappear.
At some point, the conversation shifted.
What is art?
What makes someone an artist?
Is there a difference between being creative and being an artist, or is that something we’ve decided to separate?
There wasn’t an answer.
There still isn’t.
It’s the kind of question that doesn’t resolve—it just expands.
The next day, we followed the same instinct.
No plan. Just direction.
We decided to go further down the river.
Chester, Connecticut—Chester—a town that doesn’t feel real when you first drive into it. The buildings sit too perfectly. The street feels staged. Like something built for a film, but left there after production ended.
We parked near a cemetery.
And again—coffee.
Simons Marketplace—espresso, cinnamon buns, a window seat facing Main Street. The kind of place where you sit and watch people move, and for a moment, you feel like you’re outside of it all.
Then back into it.
Cheshire Vintage—a perfectly curated shop. We spoke with one of the owners for a while. There’s something different about small towns like this. The conversations last longer. The recommendations matter more.
She sent us a few doors down.
Dina Varano Gallery—crystals, jewelry, objects that feel like they hold energy whether you believe in that or not.
There was a pattern forming.
We weren’t finding places.
We were being sent to them.
At some point, we noticed a small house.
White picket fence. Eyebrow dormer. Slightly elevated from the street as if it needed to be approached with intention.
We walked up.
There are moments where you don’t ask questions—you just follow the pull.
Next door, a door was open.
Leif Nilsson Spring Street Studio and Gallery.
We walked in.
Paintings filled the space. Impressionist, but not distant—alive in a way that made you feel like you had stepped into them rather than looking at them.
And then you realize:
the person standing there is the one who made them.
Leif.
The conversation started easily and didn’t feel like it needed to end. Stories about painting. About sailing. About working from a boat. About the house itself—once a hotel in the 1800s, now something else entirely.
We learned that the small studio we noticed outside was his too.
That everything we had just walked into was part of a larger life we hadn’t known existed ten minutes before.
At one point, I stepped back and saw Nikko standing in front of a long painting, looking up at it.
Still.
There are moments when someone becomes part of a scene without realizing it.
I took a photo.
Nikko Amadeo inside Leif Nilsson’s gallery
Not many—just enough to remember that it happened.
Before we left, he mentioned something casually.
An art show.
The next day.
We should come by.
We said we would.
Or maybe we said we might.
We left Chester and drove to New Haven.
The shift was immediate.
The Owl Shop—dark wood, leather chairs, amber lights hanging low over the bar. The kind of place that exists outside of time, or at least outside of whatever time you were in before you walked in.
We sat down.
Picked cigars.
Ordered beers.
I had brought fragrance with me—something I had been thinking about all day without knowing why.
Lily of the valley.
And Muskara Aquilaria from Fueguia 1833.
We layered it into the room without asking permission.
The sweetness cut through the smoke.
The smoke settled back into it.
For a moment, the air felt constructed.
Not accidental.
We sat there, surrounded by low conversation, glass, wood, and heat, and returned to the same questions.
What is art?
What makes someone an artist?
Is it making something?
Or is it seeing something differently?
I don’t know when the conversation stopped and just became part of the atmosphere.
It felt like we had stepped into another version of the day.
Or another version of ourselves.
At some point, we left.
Not because anything ended, but because something was continuing somewhere else.
We talked about Chester the entire way back.
About Leif.
About the studio.
About the fact that we could go back the next day.
We said it casually, but it didn’t feel casual.
Some places open something.
Some people do too.
We said we might go back.
And for some reason, that felt like the most important decision we had made all weekend.
A Rabbit Dinner
And as a kid, that just made sense to me.
Easter bunny… rabbit… dinner.
No questions asked.
That Which We Keep
There are things we keep without realizing we’ve decided to keep them.
Not objects. Not always.
Sometimes it’s the way someone ties an apron.
The way garlic hits hot oil.
The sound of a wooden spoon against a pot.
The smell of vinegar lifting through a stew.
Chiddu ca tinemu.
That which we keep.
Last week, I made rabbit stemperata.
It’s something I’ve only ever known as an Easter dish. Not because someone told me that’s when you eat it—but because that’s when he made it. My grandfather. Pop.
In my family, it wasn’t chicken. It was rabbit. Always rabbit.
And as a kid, that just made sense to me.
Easter bunny… rabbit… dinner.
No questions asked.
I remember going with him to get it.
There was one place in town—Meadow Meat—down by the river.
You didn’t just walk into a store.
You walked into a giant refrigerator.
A heavy door. Cold air rushing out.
That immediate chill that hits your face and stays in your clothes.
Inside, it felt like a world not everyone knew about.
Almost like a private club for people who really cooked.
There were peppers for roasting.
Heads of garlic.
Jars of capers.
Hot peppers soaking in vinegar.
And somewhere in there, always, a hand-written sign:
“Sicilian green olives with pit.”
Pop would always get them.
A lot of them.
Because when we got home, he’d put on his white apron and start cooking—and one of the first things he’d do was pound the olives.
Not chop. Not slice.
Pound.
I didn’t know why at the time. I just knew it mattered.
And I knew I had to watch.
Even as a kid, there was this quiet feeling:
Pay attention. This is important.
No one said it out loud.
But I understood it.
At school, it was different.
I’d talk about what we ate at home—excited, proud.
Rabbit stew. Vinegar. Olives.
And it was always the same reaction:
“Ew.”
“Wait… rabbit??”
Laughter.
And I remember thinking—
How could something that feels this good, this full, be something to laugh at?
I didn’t have the language for it then, but I get it now:
Not everything meaningful translates.
Some things are meant to be experienced, not explained.
Last week, my brother and I went back.
Same place. Same building. Same door.
Meadow Meat
Nothing had changed.
It was still full of people who knew exactly why they were there.
People looking for something just a little more special than what you find in a grocery store.
We asked for rabbit.
The butcher disappeared into the back, and that’s when I saw it again:
“Sicilian green olives with pit.”
Of course.
When he came back, he asked,
“Anything else?”
And without even thinking:
“Yeah—one pound of green olives.”
He smiled.
“Ah… stemperata?”
Yes.
Exactly that.
There’s something about returning to a place like that—
not as a kid being brought along,
but as someone choosing to go back.
Choosing to continue it.
It stops being memory and becomes action.
This is what Chiddu ca tinemu is about.
Not just what we keep—but what we carry forward.
The recipes.
The rituals.
The small, specific ways of doing things that don’t exist anywhere else.
The things that might not make sense to everyone—
but mean everything to you.
This is the beginning of The Collection.
The pieces, the garments, the objects, the images—
they all come from this place.
From memory.
From inheritance.
From moments like standing in a cold room, watching someone you love prepare something with care.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing more of what I’ve kept.
Objects from my grandparents’ home.
Fragments. Textures.
Pieces of the collection.
All of it leading toward the full lookbook for
Collection 1: Chiddu ca tinemu.
Because at the end of the day,
this is what we really pass down:
Not things.
But ways of living.
This is Chiddu ca tinemu…
that which we keep, so we can one day give it away.
Studio Rituals: Flowers on the Desk
Yesterday I brought something simple into the studio—flowers.
It had been a while since I picked up flowers just to place in a vase for myself. No reason other than wanting a little life in the room. I found a few calla lilies and some chamomile and brought them back to the studio to arrange.
Yesterday I brought something simple into the studio—flowers.
It had been a while since I picked up flowers just to place in a vase for myself. No reason other than wanting a little life in the room. I found a few calla lilies and some chamomile and brought them back to the studio to arrange.
What I loved most was how naturally they worked together. Both sat in the same quiet palette of creams and soft yellows, but their textures couldn’t have been more different. The calla lilies stood tall and sculptural—almost architectural—while the chamomile scattered little sun-like blooms around them. Smooth against delicate. Structure against softness.
The juxtaposition made the arrangement feel alive.
While arranging them I even thought about adding a few sprigs of parsley as a green filler—something humble and unexpected—to give the bouquet another layer of texture. I’ve always loved playing with contrast when arranging flowers. Different shapes, different densities, different personalities all sharing the same space.
Now the arrangement sits on my desk in the studio.
The blooms quietly bring signs of spring with them, even if the season hasn’t fully arrived yet. It changes the room in a small but noticeable way. A little warmth. A little softness. A reminder that life outside is beginning to wake up again.
At one point I stopped working and photographed one of the calla lilies. Just a simple portrait. A way to keep the flower immortal for a moment before time inevitably takes it. The photographs below are from that small pause in the day.
What I love most about keeping flowers around is watching them change. Every day the arrangement shifts slightly—blooms opening, stems leaning, petals softening, eventually wilting. It’s a tiny living sculpture that evolves quietly in the corner of the studio.
It’s also a reminder.
Beautiful things are often here for only a short time.
And that’s exactly why we should enjoy them while they’re here.
Heirloom at Comstock Ferre
Last night, my brother Nikko and I slipped into Heirloom at Comstock Ferre just as the evening settled in — around six, that soft hour when daylight is thinning but the room hasn’t fully turned to night.
Heirloom at Comstock Ferre
Old Wethersfield, Connecticut
There are places that feel designed for lingering.
Not rushed through. Not optimized. Just quietly built to hold people for a while.
Last night, my brother Nikko and I slipped into Heirloom at Comstock Ferre just as the evening settled in — around six, that soft hour when daylight is thinning but the room hasn’t fully turned to night.
We were greeted first by the pastry counter, still generously full in a way that immediately signals care. Cookies lined in rows. Cakes cut into clean slices. And, most importantly, the sourdough — weekend-only loaves that you learn quickly not to take for granted. When they’re gone, they’re gone.
We ordered instinctively.
A slice of cake that read like a cousin to tiramisu, but brighter — layered with lemon curd running through the center. Light but grounded. Alongside it, a maple pecan cookie, which Nikko already knew to love.
Pastries in hand, we asked to sit at the bar.
At the Far End of the Bar
The bar was softly active — exactly the right temperature of energy.
Two women sat nearby, settled into their cocktails. Two men worked quietly on laptops. One had ordered a slice of pizza that looked convincing enough to note mentally for next time.
The music was low but rhythmic, just enough to hold the room together without asking for attention. It created that rare condition where conversation can unfold without strain — no raised voices, no leaning in too close just to be heard.
A place to talk.
A place to think.
The Drinks
Nikko ordered the Honey Hole — Tomcat gin, lemon, ginger, honey lavender, finished with a scotch float.
When it arrived, the color was the first thing — a kind of liquid sunlight. He lifted the glass and immediately caught the scotch on the nose before even tasting.
The first sip led with the smoke of the float, quickly rounded by honey and the gentle heat of ginger. Warm but bright. Structured but easy.
His immediate read was simple:
perfect for any season.
Something that could warm you in winter but still feel refreshing in summer — a careful juxtaposition that kept revealing itself with each sip.
I ordered the Spicy Berry and Hibiscus — reposado, lime, blueberry, raspberry, hibiscus jam, finished with Scrappy’s bitters.
Where Nikko’s leaned golden, mine sat deeper in tone. Dark, warm, slightly spiced. The kind of drink that feels most at home beside a fireplace in the colder months. Soft fruit, gentle heat, and enough body to make you slow down while drinking it.
Both cocktails carried intention without heaviness.
Small Moments That Make a Room
At one point, a family with young children came in and took seats nearby.
Behind the bar, the bartender began torching large marshmallows — slow, deliberate passes of the flame — before placing them on top of the children’s hot chocolates. The room shifted almost instantly.
You could hear it happen.
Small oohs and ahhs from nearby tables. Curious glances. That quiet, shared delight that moves through a space when something simple is done well.
Later, the woman next to me ordered a cocktail garnished with a sprig of rosemary. The bartender passed the torch over it briefly, releasing that sharp, green aroma into the air.
For a few minutes, the room carried layers of scent:
Pastry sugar.
Toasted marshmallow.
Warm rosemary.
Fragrant citrus and spirits.
It punctuated the evening in the best way — subtle but immersive.
Conversations at the Bar
The bartender was warm and easy to talk with — the kind of presence that makes asking questions feel natural.
I had to ask about the bacon, egg, and cheese.
I’ve had it there before, and it lingers in memory the way truly good simple food does. Unfortunately, they were sold out for the evening — a disappointment, but an understandable one.
What softened the blow was learning what they offer to take home.
Par-baked biscuits.
House-made cinnamon buns ready for the oven.
Even sourdough dough available to bring back to your own kitchen.
This detail matters.
It extends the experience beyond the room itself — letting the ritual continue at home.
And then: the small victory.
Back at the pastry counter, two sourdough loaves remained. We managed to claim one of the last of the day — the kind of small win that quietly makes an evening feel complete.
Why Places Like This Matter
As we sat there — pastries half-finished, cocktails slowly disappearing — the conversation inevitably turned toward amadeo amadeo and the kind of world I’m building.
What struck me most is how aligned the atmosphere at Heirloom feels with a slower, more intentional way of living.
Nothing about the space pushes you out the door.
Nothing feels overworked.
There is craftsmanship here, but it isn’t performative.
In a town like Old Wethersfield, places like Heirloom matter because they create more than just a stop for coffee or a drink. They build a pocket of community. A place where you can sit, talk, work quietly, bring your family, or simply pause for a moment.
More personally, it offers something even harder to manufacture:
The feeling of being taken care of.
Of being able to settle in.
Of being allowed — even encouraged — to slow down in the middle of everything else moving quickly.
And in this moment, that kind of space feels less like a luxury and more like a necessity.
Winter Citrus & Fennel Ritual Plate
After time spent at Comstock Ferre — moving slowly between the produce, the seeds, the bread counter — it felt right to assemble something simple. Something seasonal. Something meant to be placed in the center of the table and passed between hands.
This plate began with sourdough from Heirloom at Comstock Ferre. Warm, structured, meant to be torn rather than carefully sliced. The kind of bread that immediately shifts a table into something more communal.
Everything else gathered around it.
Blood oranges for brightness in the depth of February.
Fennel for clean, cool lift.
Endive for bitterness.
Mint and parsley for green sharpness.
Olive oil, salt, pepper — enough, but not too much.
Toasted pistachios for texture.
Nothing here is rigid. Everything is adjustable.
This is less a fixed recipe and more a way of sharing time.
Winter Citrus & Fennel Ritual Plate
You’ll need (loosely):
Blood oranges (or any winter citrus you find)
1 fennel bulb, shaved thin
A few endives, leaves separated or sliced
Fresh mint
Fresh parsley
Extra virgin olive oil
Flaky sea salt
Fresh cracked black pepper
Toasted pistachios, lightly crushed
Sourdough from Heirloom at Comstock Ferre
Optional: a soft cheese such as ricotta or burrata
To assemble
Slice the citrus into thin rounds or soft half-moons, removing any seeds. Let the juice fall naturally onto the plate — it becomes part of the dressing.
Arrange the citrus across a large shallow platter. Scatter the shaved fennel over and between the slices so the textures begin to intermingle.
Tuck in the endive leaves, allowing some height and structure to form naturally. Tear the mint and parsley gently with your hands and let them fall where they may.
Drizzle generously with good olive oil. Finish with flaky sea salt, several turns of black pepper, and a loose scattering of toasted pistachios.
If using cheese, add soft spoonfuls or torn pieces across the plate — not too neat.
To serve
Grill or warm the sourdough until the edges are crisp and the interior stays tender.
Place the bread alongside the platter and serve immediately, encouraging everyone at the table to tear, scoop, and build their own bites.
This dish is meant to be moved through slowly — passed, adjusted, shared.
Swap the citrus.
Change the herbs.
Use what looks best that day.
The ritual matters more than the precision.
Break the bread.
Pour the oil.
Stay at the table a little longer than planned.
Collection 1 — Look 2
Suddenly I was a child again, watching my family make hundreds and hundreds of cookies for special occasions. Every surface of the house covered—tables, counters, chairs—lined with trays cooling before being packed into tins. Cookie tins collected over decades. Tins passed from hand to hand. Picked up by family. Dropped off at gatherings. Always meant to be shared.
This dress began as a tablecloth.
Not a pristine one—one that had lived.
One that had been folded and unfolded, washed and stained, pulled from drawers for holidays and ordinary Sundays alike. A tablecloth that knew hands, heat, crumbs, and time.
When I reinterpreted it into a maxi dress with a turtleneck, I wanted to keep all of that history intact. The marks stayed. The wear stayed. The fabric wasn’t cleaned of its past—it was elevated by it.
As I steamed the dress for the first time, something unexpected happened.
The smell came back.
Steam mixed with almond paste, flour, powdered sugar. That unmistakable scent of Italian cookies—especially the S cookies—cooling on the table, fresh from the oven. Clean fabric and warm sugar layered together. It stopped me in my tracks.
Suddenly I was a child again, watching my family make hundreds and hundreds of cookies for special occasions. Every surface of the house covered—tables, counters, chairs—lined with trays cooling before being packed into tins. Cookie tins collected over decades. Tins passed from hand to hand. Picked up by family. Dropped off at gatherings. Always meant to be shared.
What stayed with me most wasn’t just the smell, but the process.
The repetition.
The patience.
The quiet perfection of doing something the exact same way generation after generation.
The recipes were written on distressed, handwritten note cards—soft at the corners from years of use. The proportions were never small. No recipe ever made just a dozen cookies. Everything was measured for abundance. Enough for everyone. Enough so you could still sneak a few straight off the tray while they were cooling.
That’s what this dress represents to me.
Generations of shared knowledge.
Love passed through hands.
Practice, patience, and care repeated until it becomes instinct.
I attached my collection of buttons—ones I’ve been gathering for nearly fifteen years—like a timeline running down the back. Each button different. Each one chosen. Each one holding its own quiet history.
This garment was hand sewn slowly, deliberately, with the same kind of attention I watched growing up in kitchens filled with heat and laughter and flour-dusted hands.
Even without an abundance of material things, there is always an abundance of love.
And when love is practiced—over and over again—it becomes something you can feel, wear, and share.
This is Collection 1, Look 2.
A dress made from memory.
A dress made to hold generations.
Collection 1: Chiddu ca tinemu
Collection 1, Chiddu ca tinemu, has existed long before it had a name—long before it had an image, a look number, or a reason to be introduced. It lived first in memory, in gesture, in domestic spaces that shaped the way glamour was understood before it was ever worn.
Collection 1: Chiddu ca tinemu
Some collections arrive loudly.
This one has been waiting.
Collection 1, Chiddu ca tinemu, has existed long before it had a name—long before it had an image, a look number, or a reason to be introduced. It lived first in memory, in gesture, in domestic spaces that shaped the way glamour was understood before it was ever worn.
Look 1 is the quiet beginning. Or rather, the moment when something already in motion allows itself to be seen.
The skirt—hand-sewn, intuitively patterned, repurposed from a vintage tablecloth—is the sole focus of this introduction. There is no distraction. No styling spectacle. Just the garment…
This collection is rooted in youth—not nostalgia, but aspiration. The kind that forms early, quietly, while sitting at kitchen tables and listening more than speaking. Watching great aunts and uncles move through their routines. Observing how they spoke about the future. How they made beauty out of what they had. How suburban life, when lived fully, could feel cinematic.
There was glamour there. Not imported, not purchased—constructed. Set hair, pressed linens, lipstick before errands. Domestic rituals elevated through care and intention. These women did not wait for a bigger life to arrive. They built one where they stood.
Chiddu ca tinemu is about that inheritance.
Every piece in the collection is made from repurposed domestic textiles—tablecloths, bed linens, table runners, lace, and unexpected household relics that carry history in their weave. These materials once lived in private spaces. Now they are reinterpreted into silhouettes that suggest women who are self-possessed, aspirational, and quietly commanding. Women who understand that intimacy and ambition are not opposites.
The garments are entirely hand sewn. The patterns arrived intuitively, guided by repetition, touch, and trust rather than rigid structure. Seams are visible. Decisions remain present. The hand is not erased. This is not about perfection—it is about presence.
As the collection unfolds, it will appear slowly, deliberately—through press, editorials, and continued documentation. Each reveal is meant to feel earned, not consumed.
This first look is not a statement.
It is a signal.
A reminder that glamour can live inside domesticity.
That heritage can be worn forward.
That aspiration often begins by watching the women who came before you and deciding, quietly, to go further.
Collection 1: Chiddu ca tinemu has been waiting.
Now, it begins to speak.
—
Closely tied to this collection is amadeo amadeo fragrance No. 37 — ECLOGUE, a scent drawn from the same domestic landscapes and private rituals. It will be stocked soon.
This is not the full picture.
It’s an opening.
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.
The Last Notes Before the Door Closes
Before the year ends, I like to take inventory — not in a business way, but in a what actually moved through my handsway. What I touched. What touched me back. What stayed. What didn’t.
This year, I made a lot. Some of it quietly. Some of it in public. Some of it only for myself.
A Year-End Studio Report
Before the year ends, I like to take inventory — not in a business way, but in a what actually moved through my handsway. What I touched. What touched me back. What stayed. What didn’t.
This year, I made a lot. Some of it quietly. Some of it in public. Some of it only for myself.
In January, I made ParisParis — collages born from walking, collecting, listening, and paying attention while moving through Paris. Paper became a way to remember before memory could blur things. Receipts, fragments, images, thoughts — all layered, all imperfect, all honest.
I created fourteen scent stories, each one a narrative waiting to be translated into liquid and air. I took them as far as the lab, knowing that not everything needs to arrive all at once.
I photographed close to two hundred new faces, building a living archive of portraits. Out of that came the denim series — bodies swallowed by giant jeans — an idea about belonging, scale, inheritance, and the strange comfort of things that don’t quite fit.
I released three incenses:
No. 1 — rose and clove
No. 2 — geranium and slate
No. 3 — tomato leaf and frankincense
I made a soap — No. 39, Garden Hose — because sometimes nostalgia smells like rubber, sun, water, and your uncle’s backyard. Because sometimes that’s enough.
I brought my clowns back. I started writing them into a cabaret. Then into a children’s book. I let absurdity sit next to tenderness again.
I opened my studio — not as a room, but as an idea. A place to participate. To collect. To follow along. To be inside the process, not just the result.
I made new collages. I tested new painting techniques. I completed ten paintings, including one made with pigment created from seashells collected on family vacations — ground down, transformed, and returned as memory made physical.
Those are the facts. The objects. The proof.
But what surprised me most this year was this:
everything I want to make already exists inside my head.
The work wasn’t about inventing ideas — it was about finding the right medium to let them out. Journaling. Storytelling. Switching materials. Moving sideways instead of forward. Learning new languages just to say the same truth more clearly.
What Shifted
I stopped caring — or I’m learning to stop caring — about how my work is interpreted. Some people won’t like it. Some people will love it too much. Both are fine.
I started trusting my gut more. Letting intuition lead before explanation. Creating with less noise around me.
My work got slower and faster. Faster in output. Slower in thinking. More deliberate. More intentional.
It got louder in its reach — I want more people inside it now — but more domestic in its source. Familiar things rendered strange. Relatable ideas that take a second to recognize. Absurdity doing the work that literalness never could.
An Unofficial Trend Report
(Observed from the sidewalk, the studio floor, and the kitchen table)
I keep seeing texture. Velvet. High gloss. Rust. Tarnish. Wear. The evidence of time doing its job.
Deep colors. Acidic neons that look like they’ve aged badly — in a good way. Patterns getting bolder. Repetition everywhere.
I’m bored of safety. Bored of everything trying to be likable. Bored of ath-leisure and neutrality disguised as taste. Everyone acting the same. Wanting the same. Dressing the same.
“Basic” feels very in right now.
Luxury, to me, has nothing to do with price and everything to do with attention.
A croissant made by someone who’s spent a lifetime learning how to make it — that’s luxury. Even if it costs less than a dollar. You’re buying knowledge, repetition, failure, patience, inheritance.
This applies to everything.
I notice the hand now more than ever. The brushstroke. The imperfect stitch. The slight error that proves someone was there. Craftsmanship is visible if you’re willing to slow down enough to see it.
Forecasts (Read Between the Lines)
Next isn’t about newness.
It’s about refinement disguised as nostalgia.
Domestic fabrics will matter. Worn ones. Velvet will return — not precious, but lived-in. Fashion will soften without becoming weak.
Objects will feel familiar before you understand why. Memory will do more work than explanation.
The most interesting work will feel personal but speak collectively. It will invite participation instead of observation.
And the artists worth watching won’t rush to show you everything at once.
I’m stepping into the next year paying closer attention. To what’s already on the table. To what’s already in the room. To what’s already been said — just not yet heard.
It’s all there.
You just have to listen.
Or smell.
Or look.
Happy New Year.
— Anthony Amadeo and The Journal
In Good Hands
This year, I paid more attention to hands than faces.
Hands tell you how long someone has been doing something.
They hold time differently.
They remember things the mind forgets.
These are the hands I kept returning to—the ones that make, that know, that feel, that carry knowledge forward quietly.
Not loud hands.
Practiced hands.
This year, I paid more attention to hands than faces.
Hands tell you how long someone has been doing something.
They hold time differently.
They remember things the mind forgets.
These are the hands I kept returning to—the ones that make, that know, that feel, that carry knowledge forward quietly.
Not loud hands.
Practiced hands.
Tailor
The tailor’s hands understand negotiation.
They know how to correct without erasing.
How to shape without overpowering.
How to listen to a body instead of fighting it.
Fabric is never rushed.
It’s guided.
Adjusted.
Asked politely to become something else.
These hands know when to stop.
They understand that perfection usually ruins the fit.
Nothing here is accidental.
Every stitch is a decision made slowly, with respect—for the cloth, and for the person who will live inside it.
Ceramicist
The ceramicist’s hands accept failure.
They know collapse intimately.
They know how much pressure is too much.
They know when to start again.
Clay records every hesitation.
Every moment of doubt lives inside the final form.
These hands understand that perfection is not the goal—
balance is.
To re-center something that has gone off course is its own kind of mastery.
To begin again without frustration is the real skill.
Painter
The painter’s hands unlearn.
They know how to cover something up without losing it.
How to erase without regret.
How to wait.
These hands are comfortable sitting with uncertainty.
Letting the work rest.
Letting it speak back.
The painting doesn’t arrive all at once.
It reveals itself slowly, in layers, in revisions, in moments of restraint.
These hands understand that finishing is not always the point.
Photographer
The photographer’s hands hesitate.
They wait for light to arrive on its own.
They recognize when the moment is close—but not ready.
The most experienced hands know when not to press the shutter.
When to let something pass.
When to trust that seeing is sometimes enough.
Framing is an act of care.
So is restraint.
These hands understand that presence matters more than capture.
Cook
The most important hands I learned from never used recipes.
They moved from memory.
From watching.
From a love that didn’t need to explain itself.
As a child, I would sit on the counter just to see better. Not to help—just to watch.
The way his hands moved through ingredients as if they already knew each other.
The way nothing was measured, yet nothing was ever wrong.
These hands taught without teaching.
You learned by paying attention.
By listening when nothing was being said.
By feeling when something was ready before it looked ready.
This wasn’t cooking as performance.
This was cooking as inheritance.
Every gesture had already been done before—
by his parents,
by their parents,
carried quietly through kitchens and years.
Even then, I knew this mattered.
That this wasn’t just dinner.
That this was something meant to outlive him.
Meant to be carried forward.
This is how the technique lives on.
Not written down.
Not corrected.
But trusted.
You watch.
You learn.
You listen.
You feel.
You love.
And one day, your hands remember before your mind does.
Farmer
The farmer’s hands understand patience.
They know that growth cannot be rushed.
That tending is more important than harvesting.
That care happens long before results are visible.
These hands work with seasons, not schedules.
They prune knowing something must be removed for something else to thrive.
Gardens are acts of faith.
You plant knowing you may never see the fullest version of what you started.
These hands work for a future they may never meet—
and do it anyway.
Presser
The presser’s hands believe in dignity.
Nothing was left untouched.
Shirts.
Jeans.
Even underwear was pressed with intention.
Creases mattered.
Starch mattered.
Presentation was a form of care.
These hands understood that how you show up says something about respect—
for yourself,
for others,
for the work it took to get there.
Heat, steam, pressure—applied patiently.
Restoring order.
Restoring pride.
These hands treated the ordinary as something worthy of attention.
These are the hands I trust.
The ones that take a lifetime.
The ones that don’t rush to explain themselves.
The ones that carry knowledge forward quietly.
This is how knowledge stays alive.
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
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?
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.
