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.
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.
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.
Circles, Sillage, and the Luxury of Wandering: Day 3
The day began not with urgency but with indulgence. The kind of indulgence that lets you linger over a fried egg and cheese on baguette, contemplating whether breakfast might be the most poetic meal of the day. It was quiet luxury—warm yolk, crusty bread, and the promise of Paris unfolding itself, one unpredictable moment at a time. Khanjar was my companion, oud curling around me like a secret whispered into silk. Out the door and into the streets, where everything was waiting.
The day began not with urgency but with indulgence. The kind of indulgence that lets you linger over a fried egg and cheese on baguette, contemplating whether breakfast might be the most poetic meal of the day. It was quiet luxury—warm yolk, crusty bread, and the promise of Paris unfolding itself, one unpredictable moment at a time. Khanjar was my companion, oud curling around me like a secret whispered into silk. Out the door and into the streets, where everything was waiting.
The Eiffel Tower was my destination, or so I told myself. But can a destination be anything more than a suggestion in a city like this? First, I stumbled into Perrotin. A curvy stroke of paint on canvas stopped me cold. Texture like milk solidified into luxury, color like fruit loops that remembered being fruit. Outside again, side streets called to me with their empty charm. Locals pushed against the cold, their arms heavy with fresh produce, flowers, and a baguette tucked under every elbow like a punctuation mark.
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.
Then, Arc de Triomphe. Its enormity loomed, and suddenly I was home at Washington Square Park, under its younger sibling, the Washington Square Arch. The arches held hands across time, and I walked through their shadow, on to Musée Yves Saint Laurent. Inside, an explosion of florals: sketches, textiles, silk gazar flowers pinned into couture gowns. Yves’ love of flowers mirrored the bouquets tucked under Parisian arms, and I thought, luxury can bloom anywhere, in anything.
Out the door, into Marché Avenue du Président Wilson. Fresh-cut flowers, glistening produce, the crackle of market life. It was a palette of textures and colors, a living still-life. And then, as if summoned, Parfums Henry Jacques. My favorite house, my secret altar. I won’t spoil the magic—it’s not ready to be told—but I walked out cloaked in N° 81 and Paccino, their sillage weaving an invisible path back to the Seine.
At last, the Eiffel Tower. Rising from the end of Rue Saint-Dominique, it was a chalky mirage, a dusty white painting come to life. The juxtaposition was surreal: the opulent sillage of my fragrance against the powdery street. A circle colliding with a square. And when I arrived? It was just the Eiffel Tower. A giant underbelly of steel, a moment as underwhelming as it was iconic. But from Palais de Tokyo, the tower became a background, a symbol redefined by the people photographing it, sketching it, dreaming it.
The walk home was a carousel of choices: roundabouts spinning me like a needle on a record. Dead or Alive played in my head—“You spin me right round, baby, right round.” I followed circles into circles, then stopped for a bottle of wine. Every door I passed had a round, intricate knob in its center, a portal in disguise. Circles within circles, a motif pulling the day into a spiral.
Back at my apartment, wine in hand, I thought about the luxury of this randomness. A journey that chose me. A fragrance that lingered like a ghost. A circle pretending to be a square. Or is it the other way around? It’s whatever you say it is, until you don’t say it, and then it’s nothing.
Tomorrow will be another riddle, another scent trail, another puzzle for us to unravel. Until then, let this linger. Let it turn round and round in your mind.
Reflections in B&W
Anthony Amadeo's Best Portraits of 2024
Anthony Amadeo's Best Portraits of 2024
What a year it has been. Reflecting on the past 12 months, it feels like I’ve lived in a whirlwind of portraits. This year, I poured myself into refining the style of imagery I create. Each session felt like stepping into a new conversation, allowing the art to unfold naturally. My process has always leaned heavily on spontaneity—letting the moments emerge, rather than meticulously constructing them. Inspired by the rules of Dadaism, I approached my work with the belief that art can create itself when you’re open to the moment. The result? Images that capture the essence of human interaction in their most raw, unfiltered forms.
This year’s journey wasn’t without its challenges. While I embraced spontaneity, I also sought balance. How could I bring a sense of order to the chaos? How could I create stories in my images that feel genuine and honest while placing my subjects in abstract or surreal situations? It’s a juxtaposition I’ve chased: raw emotion within striking, offbeat visuals—a tension between connection and intrigue. Much of my work remained in my signature black-and-white style, a choice that has become synonymous with my creative voice.
People often ask me, “Why is all your work black and white?” My answer? It’s not just a choice; it’s a feeling. I learned black and white from Nick Dekker, a master darkroom printer who once assisted Ansel Adams. Nick was my teacher at Brooks Institute and my favorite mentor. I vividly recall him telling me, “I’m going to keep failing you, but it’s only so you can learn. I know you have the talent, and I don’t want you to cruise through this.” That lesson stuck. Nick’s encouragement to push beyond the surface taught me to truly see the image within an image.
For me, black and white distills a photograph to its essence. When I convert a color image to monochrome, it’s as if the unnecessary information falls away, leaving bold contrasts, shapes, and graphic elements. It’s where the photograph becomes an image—a piece of art.
As I look back on this year, I’ve selected 15 favorite images that represent the essence of 2024. Each one tells its own story.
Each portrait in this collection carries a piece of this journey—of chasing balance, finding clarity in spontaneity, and honing a style that feels both intimate and otherworldly. I hope these images resonate with you as they have with me. Here’s to another year of discovery, creation, and connection.