Red, Mirrors, and Watermelon

Some weeks feel like molting.

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Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just a shedding that happens quietly while you’re still going about your days. I’ve been walking through this one with heightened senses — as if everything is slightly louder, brighter, more symbolic than usual.

Pain can do that. It sharpens color.

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Red Everywhere

Lunar New Year unfolded in Chinatown like a fever dream in the best way.

Red poured down the streets. Gold flashed from storefronts. Drums pounded so hard it felt like the pavement had a heartbeat. Lion dancers — often called dragons, but technically lions — went door to door blessing businesses for the year ahead. They bowed. They blinked. They snapped their jaws open and shut, playful and fierce at once.

The ritual is ancient. It calls in prosperity. It wards off bad spirits. It invites luck in through the front door.

Children carried tanghulu — fruit skewered on sticks and dipped in melted sugar, hardened into glass. The fruit glowed like jewels. Hawthorn berries sealed in sweetness. Sticky and shining.

Confetti stuck to the bottoms of shoes. Cymbals clashed. The dragon undulated down the street — long, embroidered, shimmering — powered by many bodies moving as one.

It felt like collective optimism.

I stood there thinking: yes. Let’s try that. Let’s try optimism again.

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Entering the Void (On Purpose)

I saw Anish Kapoor at Lisson Gallery and walked straight into a mirror that swallowed me.

His surfaces bend reality until your sense of proportion dissolves. One piece curved inward with a severity that almost nodded to Richard Serra — heavy, minimal — but Kapoor’s mirrored voids do something stranger. They erase edges. They destabilize your footing.

You step closer and your reflection stretches, fragments, disappears.

It felt like entering a dimension without friction. A quiet void. A pause in the noise.

There is something deeply comforting about distortion. It reminds you that perception is flexible. That what feels fixed might not be.

I stayed in that calm for a long time.

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The Moka Pot and Repetition

Back home, I’ve been drawing my moka pot over and over again.

Line. Line. Line.

No erasing. No fixing. Just repetition.

The moka pot is all pressure and release. Water heated. Steam forced upward. Something bitter turned warm.

Drawing it feels like holding something steady while everything else rearranges itself. The repetition quiets the static. It’s almost funny how something so small can anchor a day.

If you draw something enough times, it starts to feel like prayer.

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Watching From the Periphery

Fashion Week unfolded like theater from a slight distance.

Khaite still understands tension.
Diotima feels intentional and exact.
Ralph Lauren remains cinematic — a master of atmosphere.
Marc Jacobs plays with proportion like it’s a joke only he understands.

And Tory Burch — something fresh there. A subtle shift over the last few seasons. Cleaner. Sharper. Less eager.

It’s interesting to watch from a different vantage point. Less frenzy. More observation.

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Watermelon, Metal, Oud

I finally stopped into Naked Ghosts — a perfumery that feels less like retail and more like conversation.

We talked about scent as sculpture. As distortion. As memory.

One fragrance — Strinking by Rich Mess — opened with shockingly ripe watermelon. Wet. Metallic. Almost too bright. It lingered longer than expected, then melted into something ambery and woody, still whispering fruit.

I keep imagining layering it over something dark. Dirty oud underneath bright sugar-water fruit.

Sweet over smoke. Youth over age. Fresh over ancient.

Juxtaposition again.

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Blossoms in Dirty Snow

This week has felt like blossoms pushing through snow that hasn’t fully melted yet.

Things are rough. My body and mind are not entirely aligned. Healing feels slow. But there have been flashes — red confetti, mirrored voids, sugar fruit, coffee steam — that remind me how alive things still are.

You can feel unwell and grateful at the same time.

You can hurt and still notice beauty.

You can reset without announcing it.

For now, I am drawing small objects. Watching lions bless storefronts. Standing inside mirrors. Plotting the year quietly. Sending applications into the distance. Letting sweetness sit over something darker.

Molting.

Let’s see what emerges.

-Anthony Amadeo

The Power of Scent with Arnold Kouassi

When I first came across Arnold Kouassi on Instagram, I knew instantly that I had to photograph him. There was something in his presence that felt like it belonged in the Giant Denim series—his energy, his movement, his ability to create shapes with his body that felt sculptural. What I loved most, though, was that he kept on his own jewelry for the shoot. Rings, watch, chains, bracelets—personal artifacts that added texture and narrative to the images. Those small details allowed the portraits to hold both his story and mine at the same time.

The juxtaposition of his shiny dark skin against the rough texture of oversized denim was magnetic. Every pose carried weight. Every shift in movement created new draping and new shapes. These are the moments that I live for in portraiture—when the collaboration between model and photographer creates something beyond just image-making.

But what struck me most was Arnold’s scent. It carried a familiarity that immediately triggered a memory of my aunt. A flood of warmth, nostalgia, and connection. We started talking about the power of scent—the way it can narrate an entire lifetime of memories without a single word.

I believe that the very first time you wear a fragrance is sacred. That first wear should be set aside for something special: a new chapter, a celebration, or a moment you want to lock in forever. Because scent has the power to capture a core memory. You might not consciously recall the fragrance later, but your body will remember. When you cross paths with that note again—floral, musky, citrus, smoky—it will transport you back to that exact place, that exact feeling.

Think about the first time you meet someone while wearing a fragrance. They might not register the scent consciously, but they’ll remember you. The way you moved, spoke, or laughed—all tied to that invisible, unforgettable trail in the air. That’s the power of scent. It lingers, it shapes memory, it tells a story long after the moment has passed.

For me, scent is art. It’s a medium as powerful as photography, painting, or sound. It’s intangible yet deeply human. I’m currently working on a few scent-related art pieces that explore this exact idea, and I can’t wait to share them soon.

Photographing Arnold was not just about denim or portraits. It was about collaboration, about narrative, and about memory. These images carry the texture of denim, the glint of jewelry, the shine of skin, and the invisible weight of scent—the kind that lingers in your mind as much as in the air.

Look out for more images of Arnold from this series across my other platforms. This is just the beginning.

amadeo amadeo: The Journal (SUMMER ISSUE)

THE AMADEO INCIDENT

THE AMADEO INCIDENT

Or, 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

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For decades, whispers have swirled through the upper crust of the fashion elite, the fragrance underground, and certain dive bar booths in both Palermo and the Lower East Side. The whispers all ask the same question:

Who is Anthony Amadeo?

At first glance, he seems like just another artistic savant—blessed with impeccable taste, the eye of a Renaissance sculptor, and the eerie ability to extract perfume from a memory you forgot you had. But something doesn’t add up.

There are no childhood photos.
His studio doesn’t age.
Clients describe his portraits as “time loops.”
And every scent he crafts smells like a place that doesn’t exist—but should.

More curiously, he refers to his work under the brand “amadeo amadeo”—a doubling, a mirror, a signal. Linguistic experts say this kind of repetition is common in extraterrestrial code-switching, a phenomenon seen in transmissions intercepted by SETI and in the infamous 1987 Fragrance Files Leak (since suppressed).

But the most damning evidence? The Codex.

The Codex is a series of ten numbered fragrances, each with a storyline so detailed, so emotionally specific, it’s as if someone bottled alternate timelines. Theories abound:

• No. 37 references a house that doesn’t appear on any official maps, yet people who’ve smelled it all remember the same backyard: overgrown basil, the scent of sun on vinyl, a garden hose still running.

• No. 240 is said to summon images of people’s grandparents—regardless of their ethnicity or location—down to eerily precise details.

• No. 88? We’re not allowed to speak of No. 88. Not after what happened in East LA last summer. The lowriders started levitating.

Witnesses claim Amadeo doesn’t create the scents—he retrieves them. Some say he’s a memory cartographer from a dying star system. Others claim he’s an archivist for the Council of Sensory Continuity, a galactic council tasked with bottling Earth before it disappears in the next reset.

The most fringe theory (and yet the one most cited in backroom dealer circles) is that Anthony Amadeo is not here to stay. He is only collecting. Fragments. Feelings. Faces. His showroom isn’t a business—it’s a beacon.

A signal back home.

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Stay tuned. The scent is stronger than ever. And the next fragrance drop might be a countdown.

This has been a report from The Journal. Believe nothing. Smell everything.

A Symphony of Sunlight and Synthesis: Day 19

The 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.

"I need to go outside," the thought struck with the urgency of a struck match. Out in the open, the city pulsed with a vibrancy that only sunlight could paint. I became a wanderer, a collector of sights and textures. Peeling billboards and fading art from the walls of Paris buildings—each fragment a treasure, a piece of the city’s soul destined for my collages.

My camera was my loyal scribe as I captured the architecture, each building a potential cornerstone for the fantastical landscapes I planned to assemble. Today wasn't just about creation; it was about connection—the tactile feel of the city’s energy coursing through my veins, urging me to bottle this vibrancy and channel it into my art.

The city’s rhythm felt like a palpable heartbeat under my feet, a drumbeat to which my own creative pulse quickened. Every corner offered a dialogue with the past, each street a narrative unfolding beneath the azure sky. I was collecting not just materials but energy—bottling the essence of Paris to unleash within the confines of my studio.

Back at my sanctuary, thoughts turned to my fragrances—the Codex collection, each scent a story waiting to be told, a sensory journey waiting to be embarked upon. The fragrances are more than olfactory delights; they are distillations of experiences, of emotions, of the very essence of creativity that Paris has imbued in me. Which of these will first transition from concept to tangible reality? The anticipation is exhilarating.

Let’s create. Let’s transform this torrent of creative energy into something palpable. I’m eager, almost painfully so, to share this artistic fervor with the world. Each piece I create, each fragrance I conceive, is an invitation—to feel, to explore, to dream alongside me.

Dear reader, as I hold back the visual feast until the unveiling of the complete collage, I invite you to engage with the anticipation. What stirs your soul in the realms of art and scent? How do you capture the essence of your experiences? Share your thoughts, your stories, your inspirations in the comments below.

And as for the sketch accompanying this entry, let it be a hint, a whisper of the grand tapestry of art and emotion that I’m weaving from the heart of Paris. The full revelation awaits, but for now, let us revel in the mystery, in the delicious suspense of creation.

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Stay tuned, for creativity knows no bounds, and soon, the fruits of these sun-soaked days will burst forth in colors, textures, and scents that I hope will move you as deeply as they’ve moved me.

Riddles of Red, Fragrance, and Frames: Day 14

Awoke with the dawn, a puzzle waiting to be solved. First, Lasse—our red locks a clue to the camaraderie and creativity that would unfold. Click, flash, a mystery captured in each frame. What tales do these images whisper?

Quick edits became brief interludes, each adjustment a riddle unraveling. Then Martina, her Spanish words a labyrinth I navigated with gestures and poses. Our communication, a dance of expressions and mimics. What secrets do her portraits hold, wrapped in the veil of language?

A stroll led me to the enigmatic doors of Initio Parfums Privés. Inside, aromas wove tales and spells, the salesgirl a guide through a forest of scents. Each fragrance a question, each spritz an answer. Can you guess which essence mirrors the soul?

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Riddle Me This:

• What turns red but is not embarrassed, captures moments but is not a thief?

• What speaks without words, shows without telling, and reveals without exposing?

• What can transport you without feet, enchant without magic, and intoxicate without a sip?

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Answers:

• The redhead Lasse, our shared hue crafting art in the silence of the shutter.

• Martina’s shoot, where poses spoke louder than words, and images transcended speech.

• The scents of Initio, with Paragon and Absolute Aphrodisiac casting spells on skin, weaving narratives in the air.

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Back to my refuge, more edits to tame, more images to choreograph. Tomorrow's shoots loom like unsolved puzzles. Tonight, I watch the rain sketch patterns on the glass, each droplet a metaphor, each streak a brushstroke of nature’s art.

As I scribble thoughts on paper, consider this:

• What is seen when closed eyes dream of light?

• What whispers in silence and shines in the dark?

The city rains, the camera clicks, the perfume lingers. Paris, a riddle wrapped in mystery, draped in creativity.

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Can you unravel the essence of today?

Lemons, Threads, and the Art of Encounter: Day 13

Dawn cracks, a lemon slice of sun through the Parisian haze. Emails float like driftwood in the digital sea, preparing me for the day’s creative tide. Mariia arrives at eleven, her presence a fresh breeze. We paint with light and shadows, lemons punctuating the canvas of our shoot, their citrus brightness slicing through the monotone.

A croissant intermission, then Anais sweeps in at one. Our studio turns theatre; draped fabrics and oversized garments dance around her form, lemons once again stealing scenes. Each portrait a dialogue between texture and zest.

Post-shoot Paris beckons—a wanderlust woven through the streets. LR3 store emerges like a verse in the city’s poem, its fabrics the lyrics, Louis Rubi the poet. We converse in textures and hues, each piece I try on adds a line to today’s stanza. Departing with a wish list longer than my arm, I tumble into Chachi. Serendipity dances us around our shared memories of NYC, a brief choreography of catch-up.

Evening draws me back to my sanctuary, the retouching screen awaits—a sea of pixels to navigate. Images now begin their migration to Tumblr, digital breadcrumbs for the curious to follow. Meanwhile, the Codex Fragrances simmer in my mind, their stories fermenting, ready to be distilled into words and scents. Have you wandered through their narratives on my website? Each fragrance a chapter, each scent a character.

As night cloaks Paris, my thoughts turn to formulas—alchemy at my fingertips. The more you look, the more unfolds. What tales will these concoctions tell? What memories will they invoke?

Stay tuned, for the essence of today brews in the vials of tomorrow. And remember, in this city of lights, shadows, and infinite stories, every moment is a doorway to a new labyrinth.

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What's your favorite fragrance story?

Shadows, Scents, and the Alchemy of Art: Day 8

I 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.

The shoot unfolded like a dance of fabric and form. Each frame captured the drape of denim and shirt, evoking the fluid marble folds of the Venus de Milo. Our modern-day session, echoing the timelessness of the Louvre's corridors—still unexplored by me.

Next, Zhu stepped into the frame. Language barriers couldn’t dampen the creativity; our gestures, a ballet of unspoken directions, transcended words. The camera captured more than images—it captured a silent symphony of understanding and artistry.

Post-shoot, the Musée du Parfum beckoned—a sanctuary of scent history. The ancient bottles, their curves and colors whispering of past centuries. The Civet, frozen in time, its essence once bottled now a display. History breathed through the museum, and I absorbed it all, a pilgrim at the altar of fragrance.

Grocery aisles later transformed into a gallery of gastronomy—wine, food, and the pièce de résistance, Nutella. The anticipation of spreading its sweet, rich darkness on a fresh baguette was a still life waiting to be devoured.

Now, the night's task looms—editing, retouching, transforming today’s raw captures into tomorrow’s masterpieces. But first, a moment with wine and Nutella, a simple pleasure amidst the complex tapestry of today’s creations.

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This page, a cryptic bridge to understanding—each sketch and scribble a key to the day’s locked moments. Turn the page, and the story deepens, the images blend into the words, and the words into images. Read once, then again, maybe a third time. The narrative unwinds, spirals, returns to the start. A dada diary of days, where what you see isn't all there is, and what you read is only the beginning.

Sequences, Sounds, and Sandwiches: Day 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sounds in the Jardin

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

Circles, Squares, and Scent Trails: Day 2 in Paris

Today began as all great journeys do—with breakfast. A meal? No, a ritual. Eggs cracked like the cosmos, bread toasted to the precise hue of a sepia photograph. Fueled, prepped, and curious, I ventured into the Parisian ether with no plan, no map, no compass but whimsy. Paris whispered, “Follow me,” and I obeyed.

First stop: Galeries Lafayette, a cathedral to commerce and scent. The atrium engulfed me—golden arches framing a glass dome that transformed the space into a Saint Honoré cake, and I, the cherry. I sniffed my way to the Ex Nihilo booth. Hedonist transported me back to my grandfather’s kitchen: citrus zest cutting through ginger, grapefruit sparkling on a base of amber like sunlight through stained glass. Gold Immortals? Sweet, floral silk. And Timeless Lovers—a store exclusive—left me reeling. I felt gilded, perfumed, like a ghost draped in velvet.

Out into the streets, up the serpentine path to Montmartre, my nose trailing behind boulangeries, fromageries, and florists. The pastries taunted me, each one a jewel of sugared perfection: Paris-Brest, Chouquettes, Mille-feuille. The list stretched endlessly like the hill before me. Every step closer to Sacré-Cœur was marked by a gasp—first at the domes, then at the carousel spinning in concentric circles, then at the view. Paris sprawled out below like an impressionist painting. The artists in Montmartre sketched tourist faces, and I wondered if they could draw the scent of the crêpes folding delicately into the air.

Onward to Jardin du Palais Royal, where trees lined up in cubist rows, their stark geometry slicing through my morning of domes and spirals. My brain shifted: circles gave way to squares, curves to sharp angles. Pierre Guillaume’s logo echoed this transformation, leading me instinctively to his store. There I met “Femme en Smoking,” a scent I couldn’t define—feminine, floral, but woody, sharp. The spray on my wrist became a breadcrumb in my day’s trail, guiding me forward.

By evening, I crossed the Seine to Notre Dame, its towers pressing against the Parisian sky like a hymn. My phone’s battery dwindled as I wandered, drawn to the bookstands along the riverbanks, their yellowing pages humming stories to me. Under a nearby bridge, a ghost of my younger self appeared—a memory of a photograph taken here 16 years ago. Full circle, or square? I can’t say.

With my phone at 3%, I backtracked my way home, or maybe “Femme en Smoking” led me. A final stop at the Monop for a baguette—another ritual. I stood in line as the battery threatened to extinguish, praying for one last charge to complete my purchase. Success: baguette secured.

Now, as I collapse into my apartment, I leave you with this: Follow my scent trail, the invisible breadcrumbs of “Femme en Smoking” through circles and squares, spirals and angles. Tomorrow is another abstraction waiting to be explored.

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Stay curious. Stay scented. Stay tuned.

A Smell, A Sight, A Sculptural Trash Can: Paris, Day One

Today, I arrived in Paris. This morning? This morning was soft, like the inside of a baguette. Checked into my Le Marais sanctuary, took a nap that lasted both 15 minutes and a millennium. Then I began to roam—a flâneur with no map, just a nose and a notebook.

The air was alive with a chaos of smells: aldehydes skipping like schoolchildren, buttery clouds, milky murmurs. Paris smelt of eggshell blue. Undertones brewed in the corners—espresso whispers, chocolate shadows, the spectral exhale of cigarettes, cigars curling their fingers toward dusk. Evening dropped its sepia-toned curtain.

A Pierre Cardin storefront caught my eye—a structure of dreams I need to revisit. But first, perfume. Jovoy was an altar to olfactory gods, and I knelt. Khanjar by Oman Luxury—still as arresting as the first time in London, a scent so sharp it slices memory. From there to Dover Street Parfums Market, a pocket of whimsy where I stumbled upon Thumbsucker by Stora Skuggan. It’s Shocking by Schiaparelli reincarnated, or perhaps reanimated—a ghost wearing lipstick. I loved it. I loved it the way you love a mistake.

Serge Lutens was next, all science fiction and apothecary chic. Bottles like laboratory beacons, thin and tall, vessels of future potions. Their discovery set: a story in every vial.

Hunger set in—not a Parisian hunger but something primal. Grocery store simplicity called: baguette, cheese, cured meats. Could I wait until I got home to start eating? Could I hell. The baguette was an art form in itself, torn apart like my notebook pages.

Somewhere in this first day's haze, I wandered to the Louvre's pyramid—a shard of light in the city’s ribcage. But more captivating? The trash receptacles. Oh, the trash receptacles! Wire sculptures holding plastic bags like offerings to an urban god. One was bent, mangled, kissed by a motorbike. Its twisted form was sublime, a swoop of accidental genius. I drew it in my journal, and that, my dear readers, is my masterpiece of the day.

Trash cans as art. Perfumes as poetry. Bread as the divine. Day one in Paris was everything and nothing at once.

The Polarizing Power of Secretions Magnifiques

Fragrance House: Etat Libre d'Orange
Nose: Antoine Lie

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Few fragrances have stirred the pot quite like Secretions Magnifiques. Billed as an olfactory exploration of intimacy, body fluids, and raw human sensuality, this creation by Antoine Lie is an infamous piece of fragrance lore. I’d read countless reviews—both horrified and enamored—before finally getting my own nose on it. Intrigued by the divisive chatter, I needed to experience this "art" firsthand. Spoiler alert: it didn’t disappoint.

The Encounter

I discovered this polarizing scent at New London Pharmacy, a hidden gem that surprised me with its extensive niche fragrance collection. The enthusiastic woman behind the counter was quick to share her thoughts on Secretions Magnifiques, retrieving it from the shelf with arms extended as if handling a live grenade. Her reaction to the test strip—a subtle recoil, followed by a nervous nose adjustment—only amplified my anticipation.

The first sniff? Intense, shocking, and wholly unique. Metallic, salty, milky, and slightly green, the opening conjures seaweed-strewn shores and something deeply animalic. It's neither good nor bad, feminine nor masculine—it simply is. Naturally, I had to take the plunge and spray it on my skin. After all, fragrances live their fullest lives on warm, human flesh.

On Skin: The Evolution

The immediate hit on my arm was a cocktail of sea spray, warm skin, and a metallic tang—like the taste of a nicked lip or the lingering scent of salty ocean air. As it settled, the fragrance warmed into something softer, sweeter even. On me, the mid-development brought hints of milkiness and wood, turning it into a surprisingly wearable second-skin scent. It’s as if you’ve spent the morning rolling in sand under the sun with someone special, their warmth lingering on your skin.

When I met a friend later, the dry-down had already shifted to a woody, creamy accord. She smelled my arm and remarked, "It’s like people sitting around a warm, chlorine pool, with the body heat rising and mixing with the air." That’s the magic of Secretions Magnifiques: it’s weirdly familiar yet utterly disorienting. It invites interpretations as varied as the people experiencing it.

The Artistry

This isn’t a fragrance for those who believe perfume’s sole purpose is to “smell nice.” It’s for the adventurous—those who seek to provoke conversation, challenge norms, and redefine what it means to wear scent. Antoine Lie has crafted an olfactory narrative that’s as much performance art as it is perfume. Its ability to mimic the intimate smell of human closeness, sweat, and even bodily fluids is both uncomfortable and comforting.

Layering Potential

Secretions Magnifiques would shine as a layering scent. Pair it with something smoky to amplify its warmth, or add a floral fragrance for contrast. Its chameleon-like quality makes it a versatile tool in the hands of a creative wearer.

Final Thoughts

Secretions Magnifiques is not for the faint of heart. It’s provocative, subversive, and unapologetically human. But therein lies its beauty. It’s a scent that captures the raw essence of human interaction—the warmth of an embrace, the salt of the sea, the metallic bite of life’s imperfections. For those bold enough to wear it, it’s a fragrance that turns heads, raises questions, and invites touch.

Would I wear it daily? Probably not. But do I admire its audacity and the masterful hand of Antoine Lie? Absolutely. If you’re a fragrance enthusiast who believes perfume can transcend mere scent and venture into the realm of art, this one deserves a spot in your collection.

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Let me know if you’ve tried Secretions Magnifiques or if there’s a similarly divisive fragrance you’d recommend I explore. Smell on!

A Month of Creativity, Inspiration, and Croissants

In just a few days, I’ll be heading to one of my favorite cities in the world: Paris. This month-long trip is a whirlwind of creativity, inspiration, and adventure, and I can hardly wait to dive in. The air in Paris has always felt electric to me—a blend of art, romance, and boundless creativity. It’s a city where every corner tells a story, and I’m ready to add a few new chapters of my own.

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New Faces, New Collages
I’ll be shooting an entirely new roster of models, and let me tell you, I am buzzing with ideas. The collage project I’ve been working on is about to take a sensory leap forward—interactive, intoxicating, immersive in every sense of the word. You’ll see it unfold piece by piece (yes, a collage pun), and I’ll be documenting everything in my daily journal. Think cryptic notes, fragments of inspiration, and hints of what’s to come. I promise it’ll leave you intrigued and coming back to watch it all come together.

The Scent of Paris
Paris is the city of fragrance, and my scent journey continues here in the most perfect setting. I’ll be working to complete the ten stories of The Codex while exploring the niche perfumeries that make Paris legendary. From tiny, tucked-away shops to the grandest maisons, I’ll be hunting down fragrances that whisper secrets of the city.

Fashion Frenzy
With Men’s Week and Couture Week happening while I’m there, I’m ready to soak up every ounce of fashion inspiration. Street style, luxury boutiques, thrift treasures—I want it all. The layers of Paris’ fashion scene, from the avant-garde to the timeless, will weave their way into my work. And yes, I’ll be sitting at cafes, sipping wine, people-watching, and jotting down ideas as the city hums around me.

The Parisian Experience
Cheese, croissants, baguettes…need I say more? Wine at sunset. The art galleries and museums that make Paris an eternal beacon for creatives. I’ll be diving deep into it all, engulfing myself in Parisian culture and letting the city guide me toward unexpected discoveries. Networking with other creatives, making new friends, and creating new work are all on the agenda.

Join the Journey
I’ll be sharing this adventure in The Journal and on my socials, so you can follow along with every twist and turn. There will be riddles, hints, and plenty of surprises as I weave the story of this trip. It’s a Dadaist manifesto of sorts—chaotic, cryptic, but oh-so-enticing. Join me in the comments and share your tips: the best thrift shops, fragrances I absolutely need to smell, gallery shows I can’t miss, your favorite cafe or hidden spot. Let’s make this journey as collaborative as it is personal.

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Paris awaits, and I’m ready to create. Are you ready to come along? Let’s go!

Recollections in a Bottle: The Story of No. 37

There are moments in life so vivid, so deeply woven into the fabric of who we are, that their memories feel like they have their own fragrance. For me, that moment was at the house of Aunt Mary and Uncle Bozo. It’s not just a house; it’s a world filled with layered scents—a garden in full bloom, the elegance of Aunt Mary’s perfume, and the grounding warmth of Uncle Bozo’s den. These are the inspirations behind No. 37, a fragrance I’ve created to encapsulate this treasured memory.

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From The Codex, Page 36: A synesthetic interpretation of No. 37.

Walking through their garden on a sunny spring morning, the air was fresh and earthy. There was a sense of vitality in the freshly cut greens and the damp soil, the sun awakening every leaf and bloom. The top notes of No. 37 evoke this exact moment, an invitation to step into a lush, living space where nature sings its brightest song.

Inside the house, Aunt Mary’s presence filled the room, not just through her kindness but through the delicate floral trail she left wherever she went. Lily of the valley, lilac, rose, and jasmine danced in the air, anchored by the warm embrace of amber. The middle notes of No. 37 are a tribute to her—a celebration of her elegance and the way her scent turned a house into a home.

Then there was Uncle Bozo’s den, a place of mystery and grounding energy. It smelled of well-worn leather, musky tones, and a faint whisper of tobacco. It was a world that felt lived-in and storied, where every object had purpose and history. The base notes of No. 37 capture this darker, earthier side—a counterbalance to the brightness of the garden and the softness of the florals.

Creating No. 37 wasn’t just about capturing a moment; it was about preserving a feeling. It’s a scent that tells a story, one that can transport you to a time and place where the air is thick with love, history, and life itself. I’ve always believed that scent is the most intimate form of storytelling, and No. 37 is my way of sharing a piece of my heart with you.

If you close your eyes and breathe it in, maybe you’ll find your own memories within its layers. Maybe it will remind you of a garden you’ve walked through, a loved one’s perfume, or the comfort of a space you’ve called home. Or maybe it will create new memories entirely, ones you’ll carry forward.

No. 37 is more than a fragrance; it’s a doorway. Where will it take you?

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While the fragrance is still in the works, the stories and concepts behind it are already unfolding. Stay tuned as No. 37 takes shape, becoming a physical expression of the memories and emotions it seeks to capture. Coming soon.

Lets sit down with Anthony Amadeo

1. Let’s start with the big question: What is Amadeo Amadeo?
Amadeo Amadeo is a creative compound—a world where I can explore all the ideas in my head and bring them to life. It started with photography but has expanded into scent design, painting, creative direction, and collaborations. The name represents a unified vision, blending my personal history, artistry, and everything I find inspiring.

2. What’s the story behind the name “Amadeo Amadeo”?
It’s my name, but doubling it felt right. It’s bold, it’s repetitive, and it’s almost chant-like. It’s a reminder to stay authentic to myself while building something bigger—a brand that feels personal but expansive.

3. You’ve created such a unique aesthetic. Where does your inspiration come from?
It’s a mix of contradictions: vintage meets futuristic, brutalism softened by something romantic, and influences from my Italian American upbringing. I also love drawing from the energy of cities like New York, Los Angeles, and now Paris. It’s about finding beauty in oppositions and meshing them together into something new.

4. Your photography is a cornerstone of Amadeo Amadeo. How would you describe your style?
I’d say it’s honest, raw, and a little abstract. I work a lot with natural light, bold compositions, and textures that feel tactile. I want my images to evoke a mood—whether it’s through striking fashion portraits or more experimental work, like my giant denim series.

5. Amadeo Amadeo is branching out into scent design. Tell us more about that.
Scent is such a powerful medium—it’s invisible yet unforgettable. My fragrances are deeply tied to personal stories and emotions, like family memories, places I’ve loved, and even the cities I’ve lived in. Each one is a narrative, and I can’t wait for people to experience them.

6. What keeps you creative?
Honestly, the people around me. I’m inspired by conversations, collaborations, and the everyday beauty I see in things like architecture, styling, or even a good meal. And when I feel stuck, I go back to what feels authentic—whether that’s shooting in natural light or revisiting an idea that’s been sitting with me for years.

7. What’s next for Amadeo Amadeo?
Right now, it’s all about building the brand further—finishing “The Codex” fragrance collection, creating more art, and networking in Paris. I’m also focused on bringing my vision to life across multiple mediums while keeping everything cohesive. Ultimately, I want Amadeo Amadeo to feel like a world people can step into.

8. Finally, where can people keep up with you and the world of Amadeo Amadeo?
Everything is on the website: anthony-amadeo.com. Follow me there and on Instagram to stay updated on new shoots, fragrances, art, and everything else coming out of the Amadeo Amadeo world.