Anthony Amadeo 2/21/26 Anthony Amadeo 2/21/26

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.

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.

Anthony Amadeo 2/3/25 Anthony Amadeo 2/3/25

A Vortex of Creation and Curation: Day 26

February 3rd unfurls beneath the Parisian skyline—a prelude to departure. In the quiet predawn, I delve into the chaos of creation, sifting through a month's accumulation of Paris. My temporary atelier is strewn with the ephemera of inspiration: receipts and stickers, torn art from ancient walls, cards and crumpled papers, the fragile skeletons of pastries devoured, wine corks with tales steeped in tannins.

Each object a fragment, each fragment a beacon guiding me through the labyrinth of my own making. The act of organizing is akin to choreographing a ballet of memories, each item meticulously placed into a narrative that will soon be packed away, transported across oceans, destined for "the showroom"—the physical manifestation of Amadeo Amadeo's ethos.

Within this organized chaos, I ponder the alchemy of presentation. How to encapsulate the essence of these collected experiences? The images—snapshots of fleeting moments; the scents—a diary of olfactory encounters; the wardrobe—a tapestry of Parisian textiles. These are not mere objects but artifacts of a journey, each carrying the weight of stories yearning to be told.

The day accelerates, and I am compelled to step outside, to breathe in the city one last time. My sneakers, worn thin from the relentless pursuit of capturing beauty, beg for retirement. Newly shod, I stride through Paris, each of the 19,000 steps a verse in a poem written on cobblestones.

Cafés spill over with patrons, their laughter mingling with the clink of cups. Cheeses line shop windows like sentinels; fragrances waft from passersby, a symphony of scents blending with the city’s own aroma of cigarettes and fresh bread. Repetitions abound—the rhythmic pattern of daily Parisian life, a dance I've come to know intimately.

Returning to my sanctum, the urgency of creation consumes me. Sketches, ideas, plans—my pen races across journal pages, desperate to capture the fleeting muse before she slips through my fingers. Dinner simmers on the stove, Edith Piaf serenades the twilight, and Paris whispers her sweet nothings into the evening air.

Tomorrow’s shoot looms, the final act of this Parisian play, yet my mind whirls with the future. Showrooms to design, campaigns to craft, worlds to build. In this city of lights, I've woven a tapestry rich with the threads of artistry, and soon, very soon, the doors will open to reveal the heart of amadeo amadeo.

Tonight, I rest in the cradle of creativity, the symphony of Paris etched deep within my soul, every note a promise of more to come. What a world we are about to unveil. Can you feel it, reader? The pulse of anticipation, the thrill of creation—it is overwhelming, intoxicating, and utterly, profoundly beautiful.

To those who've journeyed with me, prepare for the crescendo. The best, I assure you, is yet to come.

Anthony Amadeo 1/24/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/24/25

An Ode to Creation and Perception: Day 16

This 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.

In my sanctuary above the waking city, I draped Martin in oversized denim, our palette for capturing movement, shapes with the body, a choreography set in my obscure world. The session thrummed with energy, our creativity syncing in a ballet of lens and gesture. But as the final shot was captured, the skies opened their floodgates, casting Paris in a watery veil. Yet, not even the rain could tether my restless spirit.

Camera stowed away, I embarked on a sensory expedition, the city’s slick streets a stage for the day’s second act. Raindrops composed a symphony on cobblestones, each splash a note, every puddle a reflection of the world above. I navigated the labyrinthine alleys, each turn a surprise, every path a narrative unwinding beneath my hurried steps.

Fabric shops unfolded like treasure chests, bolts of cloth lined walls in silent expectation, patterns sprawled across tables in mid-transformation. The snip of scissors, the flutter of textiles—each a whisper of potential, a hint of what could be. My mind wove these fragments into a collage, envisioning the myriad forms they might take under the artisan's guiding hand.

Chocolatiers sculpted sweetness in their dimly lit workshops, artisans of ephemera crafting ephemeral delights. How magical the city seemed, even—or especially—through the curtain of rain, each artisan’s creation a defiance of the drabness that the weather sought to impose.

Lost then, both in place and thought, I surrendered to the disorientation. Paris, a maze with no desire for escape, each turn an introduction, every roundabout a decision spun on the spot. Amidst the rush, the city’s denizens clutched their baguettes like lifelines, culinary batons making their waterlogged way home.

Finally, refuge found in a covered passageway. Here, the rain’s tyranny was barred entry, and life continued under the watchful gaze of glass ceilings. A bookstore beckoned with the allure of its aged tomes, their covers a gallery of bygone graphic arts. Muted, dusty, they spoke in hues that only old paper can—a language of texture and tone that whispered secrets of their past readers.

Today was a day not captured through a lens but experienced with a vividness that photography seldom grants. It was a day of hearing colors, seeing sounds, and tasting the city's aromatic offerings. If a picture is worth a thousand words, today's experiences were a novel, lived and breathed rather than viewed through the distillation of a frame.

In a world eager to scroll past beauty, to consume without savoring, I seek to craft stories that demand pause, that command emotion. For what is art but the transmission of feeling, from creator to beholder, from one soul to another across the chasm of experience?

Today, I did not photograph, but I created. I narrated. I lived. Is this not art? Is this not life? As the city whispered its secrets, I penned them down—not just to remember, but to share, to evoke, to feel. For in the end, isn’t that what we’re here for? Not just to see art, but to experience it, to live it, to be moved by it.

And so, with the rain’s last notes playing softly against my window, I retreat into the night, the echoes of the day resonating deep within, a reminder that every moment is a canvas, every experience a brushstroke in the grand masterpiece of life.

Anthony Amadeo 1/21/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/21/25

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.

What's your favorite fragrance story?

Anthony Amadeo 1/20/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/20/25

Inventory of Recurrences: Day 12

Today’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.

Echoes Catalogue:

Espresso: Morning ritual, the dark brew mirroring the river's flow, each sip a pause, a consideration.
Circles: Dryer doors, croissant spirals, camera lenses—endless loops dancing through days and thoughts.
Doors: Gateways to cafes, to shops of antiquities, each entry a new chapter, each exit a closure.
Antiques: Objects with layers of lives lived, stories told in wood grain and chipped paint, history held in tactile memories.
Juxtapositions: Old paired with new in artifacts and conversations, the past and present melding in the city's streets and my own creations.
Luxuries in Excess: The buttery layers of pastries, the dense aroma of perfume, luxury not as opulence but as everyday Parisian air.
Art: From street sketches to gallery masterpieces, Paris frames itself, each scene a living canvas.
Fragrances: Bottles of history, scents cutting through time, a perfume shop as a museum of olfactory art.
Cafes: Hubs of creativity, espresso steam mingling with human warmth, laughter echoing off tiled walls.
Craftsmen: Artisans pressing history into books, pulling espresso shots, stitching leather, their skills a bridge from past craft to present need.
Footsteps: My own on cobblestones, echoing those of flâneurs past, a rhythmic beat to the city’s timeless song.

Glossary of the Frequented:

Flâneur (n.): an urban explorer, a connoisseur of street symphony, an observer of the ballet of the boulevards.
Répétition (n.): the act of encountering the same motifs, the same themes, the dance of the familiar in daily vistas.
Antique (adj.): bearing the patina of the past, objects and moments aged into beauty, carrying stories in each worn corner.

This journal entry itself becomes a meta-collage, a layering of observations and reflections, where the mundane meets the profound in the list of daily recurrences. Paris teaches that even in stillness, even in the act of looking back, the mind walks new paths.

Anthony Amadeo 1/17/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/17/25

A Dada Day of Fragrance, Misfortune, and Revelry: Day 9

Woke 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.

But the city called with a siren’s song, and I was off to meet Joanne for an olfactory adventure at Nose. The walk there was a prelude, an americano and cinnamon bun in hand, pausing to savor a moment alone on the bustling Paris streets. Then, disaster—a bird's unfortunate aim, a collision with a stranger, coffee scalding my hand in an impromptu ballet of chaos. The street became a stage, the passersby unwitting audience members to my slapstick tragedy.

Joanne arrived, laughter mingling with the tail end of my debacle. We ducked into Nose, our spirits lifted by the promise of finding the perfect fragrance. The in-store experience—a blend of technology and human intuition—guided us through a maze of scents. I emerged victorious, armed with Radical Rose and Io Non Ho Mani Che Mi Accarezzino il Volto, each a bottled revolution, their sillage a declaration of presence.

Our quest for treasures continued through thrift stores, fingers brushing against the textures of past lives. A pair of worn Ferragamo heels whispered biographies from their scuffed soles—stories of smoky bars and forgotten Paris nights. Who wore these? What secrets did they hear? Joanne’s find—a new leather jacket, rich with potential stories—was a tangible slice of history.

As twilight deepened, we found ourselves at Kissproof, a bar wallpapered with the kisses of ghosts. Joanne pointed to a lipstick mark—hers, a relic of another night. She recommended the "Drink Yourself to Death," a carousel of spirits that danced around the palate: Harakiri pickleback, sparkling sake, and trompette de la mort. Potato chips and caviar joined the fray, an unlikely duo that sang of indulgence and whimsy.

John and his girlfriend appeared, threading their own narratives into the tapestry of the evening. The night pulsed with energy, each laugh and clink of glasses a brushstroke on the vibrant canvas of Paris nightlife.

Finally, the walk home—a solitary coda to the symphony of the day. The city’s lights blurred into a river of gold, the streets a gallery displaying the art of the everyday. Back at my apartment, the day’s adventures spilled onto paper, a stream of consciousness that meandered like the Seine.

In Paris, even the mundane becomes a masterpiece, and every misstep is a step into the absurd, the beautiful, the uniquely memorable.

Anthony Amadeo 1/14/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/14/25

The Old, The New, The Twinkle Between: Day 6

This morning began with eggs and tomatoes, the color of memory. Coffee hot enough to wake me, edits sharp enough to carve into Lane’s images. I sat at my bistro table, sipping and clicking, time folding like the ripples in my espresso. My task? To make the new old, or maybe the old new.

Lane’s photos became an experiment: How do you colorize black and white without losing the ghost? Like those photos from Aunt Mary’s, faces painted with watercolors that floated on the edge of reality. Trial, error, repeat. Each pixel a whisper from the past, asking, Am I new yet?

The city called. I answered.

I walked by small storefronts, each a tiny theater staging its own play. A chocolatier sculpting gems of cocoa, futuristic shapes born from a craft older than the word “modern.” A comic artist hunched over his desk, black-and-white frames spilling onto the studio walls like a graphic novel alive. Old comics, new ink. The air felt heavy with contrast, like a song played in two keys at once.

Then, a ping—Joanne. An old friend from New York, now here, now Parisian. We met for coffee, wandered past bridges, Notre Dame standing sentinel as we reminisced. My eyes, still tourists in this city, took in every detail: cracked paint, cobblestones, shadows bending over wrought iron. Joanne left for work, leaving me to my vignettes—storefronts glowing like relics in their glass frames.

Antique shops whispered promises of new lives for old things. Doors locked for the night, their treasures out of reach, but I imagined each item: a mirror reflecting someone else’s face, a chair bearing someone else’s weight. Is it still old if it belongs to me now? Or does possession make it new?

A reflection stopped me: an old French building mirrored in a modern glass façade, its ornate curves warped by the building’s jagged geometry. Old and new danced, each reshaping the other, a duet in contradictions. My mind spiraled: Can old become new if it never knew it was old?

Jazz floated on the air, breaking my spiral. A trio of musicians played on the street, their notes tumbling into the cold night. People paused, baguette sandwiches in hand, faces lit with joy. Music made old by its familiarity, new by its impermanence. I stood still, listening, feeling my thoughts scatter like sheet music caught in the wind.

Crossing a bridge, I noticed time was slipping toward 6 p.m.—the hour when the Eiffel Tower bursts into glitter. I paused, called Jaimie in New York, and shared the moment as the city sparkled. The tower twinkled, Paris inhaled, and for ten minutes, everything felt suspended in light.

Back at my apartment, I poured wine and pondered the day: old colliding with new, the way chocolate shapes meet tradition, the way jazz fills the streets, the way a reflection can be older than the building it mirrors. Paris is a city where time folds in on itself, where every moment is a collage.

Old is new. New is old. Perhaps neither exist. Or perhaps both do, endlessly.

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

Sequences, Sounds, and Sandwiches: Day 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anthony Amadeo 1/10/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/10/25

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.

Stay curious. Stay scented. Stay tuned.

Anthony Amadeo 1/9/25 Anthony Amadeo 1/9/25

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.

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

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

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

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

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

The Studio with a View

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

Walking (and Walking) Through London

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

Pub Culture and Fish & Chips

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

Fragrance Finds

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

Collaging in London

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

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

Vintage Finds and Local Gems

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