art
For years, I nodded along when people would dismissively mutter, "Art is just a bunch of BS."
And for years, I genuinely thought they meant Balloon Sculptures.
Read MoreOr, The Artist Who Came to Earth With a Camera and a Nose for Memory
by a former employee of the U.S. Bureau of Olfactory Surveillance
Read MorePhotocopies of Vincent Paladino by Anthony Amadeo
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Spring. The mere whisper of the word breathes life into the dormant, stirring the sleeping hues beneath the earth into a riot of color. It's not just a season; it’s a vibrant reawakening, a fresh canvas waiting for bold strokes. Here at amadeo amadeo, spring isn't just about blooming flowers; it’s about blooming ideas.
This season, we dive headfirst into a mélange of creations and reflections. From the lingering scent of mimosa—those tiny suns lighting up every corner of our studio—to the crisp pages of our journals brimming with sketches, every element sings of renewal.
Tonight, a new collage set emerges, not yet named but pulsing with the same vitality that runs through our veins this season. It’s a work in progress, a narrative unfolding petal by petal, a story stitched from the fabric of everyday enchantment.
“Luxury. What is it? Not the heavy definition they teach you but the light one you feel when the details line up just so. Peeling café signs, glossy typography, the sway of a cigarette. Luxe is a bouquet bought for a few euros and dropped into a handmade vase. It’s the unrepeatable ceremony of this moment, right here, right now,” I mused in a Paris cafe, as the city's symphony unfurled around me. This sentiment captures the essence of our spring offerings, intertwining the simple with the sublime.
Anticipation is also ripe for the Fall/Winter 2025 collections. The runways have spoken, and I am eager to translate their whispers into a series of line drawings—my ode to the couture that captivated my artist’s heart.
What will bloom from the studio of amadeo amadeo this spring? Expect a confusion of colors, a tapestry of textures, and a symphony of scents. We are all gardeners of the spirit, and this is our season to cultivate.
Stay tuned, for each petal unfurls a story, each scent a memory. Dive into the spring issue of The Journal, where we pluck the days, arrange them into bouquets of thought, and present them to you—our fellow dreamers and makers.
AA: Jamil, it was such a pleasure photographing you during your visit to NYC!
Your profile is incredible to photograph, and you brought such a strong energy to the shoot. How was the experience for you, especially being part of the giant denim jeans series?
Tomorrow, the echoes of my steps will fade from these cobblestone streets, yet today, the city still pulses beneath my feet. Paris, you are a manuscript written in the ink of infinite encounters, a palimpsest of creativity and chaos. How to encapsulate this whirlwind? Let us dive into the looking glass, reflect backwards, upside down, inside out.
Read MoreAwakened before dawn, I ventured forth—across the Seine, to the pulse of Paris waking. The morning called for a whimsical visit to Café du Clown. A. Clown surfaced, mischief in tow, craving the playful side of the Parisian palette.
Read MoreEphemeral Whispers of the Seine
Mirror echoes in chiaroscuro skies, juxtapose, collide, cradle— A day never lived, a night never slept. Croissant moon phases flipping through fabric swatches, each thread a lifeline to yesterday’s espresso dream.
Read MoreDraw, O coward! No, sir, panic is a basic in a prison.
Rip, cut, collect. Art, a star. Collages, so elegant. A canal, plan, a NASA lad. Did I as I said I’d do? O, stone, be not so.
Read MoreToday unfurls like a scroll, inked with tasks yet written in the frenzied script of a mind ablaze. I am the eye of a creative storm, each gust a gale of ideas swirling, threatening to overtake my capacity to channel them into the tangible. Work, work, work—the mantra pulses in my veins, a rhythm beating against the ticking clock.
Read MoreThe dawn unfurled with a rare generosity today—the sun, a long-absent friend, decided to grace Paris with its radiant presence. As the light spilled through my window, I was at my workstation, espresso at my side, fingers dancing over images needing the breath of life through retouching. But the sun’s embrace was too compelling, whispering promises of inspiration through the golden warmth.
Read MoreToday dawned prematurely, at 5:30 a.m., with the restless energy of creation pulsing through the pre-dawn silence. Espresso in hand, steaming like the city's cobblestone under morning mist, I dove into a sea of images awaiting transformation—edits, collages, an alchemy of artistry.
Read MoreAwakened at the witching hour—4:30 a.m., the city still cloaked in its nocturnal shroud. Sleep's remnants cling like cobwebs, but the allure of the undone propels me from bed to workstation. The glow of the screen, my sole companion, as I bend light and shadow to my will until dawn.
Read MoreThis morning dawned like an open canvas—espresso steam twirling into the early air, mingling with the anticipation of creative communion. The ritual shower left my thoughts clearer, my senses sharper, ready to dance with the day's demands. As the clock nudged closer to eleven, I descended to greet Martin, my co-conspirator for today's visual symphony. With a quick dash for an Americano—my fuel—I primed us for the unfolding artistry.
Read MoreDawn unfurled with the usual urgency; my retouching station beckoned. Prints lay scattered like leaves, each one a prelude to destruction and rebirth through collage. Ripping, tearing, reassembling—today was a day for creating chaos that begets beauty.
Read MoreToday’s exploration was internal, a reflective mapping of patterns and themes that surfaced from the flurry of the past days. Seated at my digital desk, I traced the lines of repetition in my Parisian journey, drafting an inventory not of goods, but of experiences and echoes.
Read MoreDawn unfurled slowly as I embarked on a solitary pilgrimage to the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. The city was hushed, streets emptied of their usual clamor, offering a rare solitude. With only my footsteps as company, I wandered, the echo of each step a soft conversation with the cobblestones.
Read MoreMorning spilled over with the hum of retouching, each click a chisel sculpting the digital stone of the past week's captures. A parade of faces and fragments scrolled across my screen, whispers of shutter snaps echoing in the pixels. I shaped the contours of memory, distilling moments into icons for future collages.
Read MoreWoke enveloped by a dawn of enthusiasm—espresso in one hand, retouching tool in the other. Nia arrived, her energy radiating like a beacon through the calm of my studio. Click, flash, laughter—our session was a whirlwind of creativity and conversation, a dance of light and shadow capturing her vibrant essence. As she left, I plunged into edits, the digital canvas morphing under my hands, each pixel a note in an unfolding symphony.
Read MoreI rose with the sun casting long shadows across the crumpled sheets—a canvas of light and dark. Espresso brewed, the scent filled the apartment, the first muse of the day. Just as the coffee hit its darkest note, Koki arrived, his presence slicing through the morning haze.
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