A Symphony of Collages and Queries: Day 15
Dawn 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.
Dawn 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.
An unexpected free morning—my first model canceled. I diverted this gift of time towards olfactory exploration, weaving through the streets to fragrance boutiques, punctuating the journey with a ritualistic espresso, savoring the bitter liquid as it echoed the crisp morning air.
Lunch in hand, I returned, setting the stage for Tom's arrival. Our shoot unfolded like a choreographed dance, denim layers fluttering in orchestrated tumult, the camera capturing every ripple. These images whispered of potential—each a candidate for the collage that would later frame their energy in stillness.
Post-shoot, I found solace and inspiration at the Gagosian, where Bennett Miller's pigment prints of AI-generated art challenged the definitions of creativity. His work—a puzzle of prompts and pixels, paintbrushes and perceptions. What, then, is the artist? A conductor of commands to machines or mediums?
Wandering home, the city's palette blurred into philosophical musings. What is art? Is it the direction, the construction of scenes, the prompts that evoke thought or action? My art spans mediums, reliant on the dialogue between creation and response, the trust implicit in the exchange of ideas. Trust—the invisible thread that binds the artist to the audience, as crucial as the stroke of a brush or the click of a shutter.
My work, a world—an ecosystem of interactions, expressions, and experiments. Art isn't confined to canvases or concert halls; it's the cashmere casually draped, the scent that lingers, the gaze that captures. It's the mundane made magical through the artist's lens.
Tonight, as I ponder the porous boundaries of art and life, I wonder: Is living not a form of art? Is art not a way of living? In this world—my world—each moment is a brushstroke on the expansive canvas of existence.
Let us not just create art. Let us live artfully, embracing the chaos, the calm, and the infinite canvases yet unmarked.
Is living, art? Is art, living? Indeed, perhaps they are one and the same, each breath a stroke of genius, every day a masterpiece unfolding.
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?
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
A Symphony of Antiquities and Aromas: Day 11
Dawn 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.
Dawn 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.
Pen is emptied of ink so instead of writing today…. a piece of wall art saved from today
A week into Paris and not a single croissant had passed my lips—an oversight I intended to correct. Halfway to the flea market, destiny guided me to a boulangerie. The scent of baking bread, a siren call. "Bonjourrrr!" I greeted, pointing eagerly at pastries. The language barrier turned "a croissant, too" into "a croissant, two." A delightful mistake—my bag now heavy with double the anticipated joy. The first bite buckled my knees; buttery, flaky layers dissolving into pure bliss. I paused in a nearby park, surrendering to the indulgence.
After the initial delight of my accidental double croissant indulgence, I ventured onwards, my steps echoing through the quiet morning streets towards the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. The market, a sprawling canvas of history, began to stir as shopkeepers gradually lifted their gates, revealing treasures accumulated from centuries past.
The antiques section unfolded like a grand opera of objects, each stall an act in an epic narrative. The first aria was sung by textiles—Victorian lace whispering tales of gas-lit ballrooms, alongside rugged 1950s Americana denim, each thread spun with stories of old worlds and new frontiers. Costumes hung like suspended animations, their fabrics telling of faded operas and long-closed theaters.
As I wandered deeper, the market transformed into a library of olfactory memories. Vintage fragrance bottles lined the shelves like books, each a volume of scented letters. The delicate glass vials of Chanel's early concoctions spoke of chic Parisian nights; Guerlain's Shalimar conjured visions of exotic oriental gardens. Balenciaga's Le Dix held echoes of elegant soirées, while L’Air du Temps by Nina Ricci whispered of post-war hope and renewal. Each scent was a time capsule, waiting to envelop the wearer in its historic embrace.
Lolita Lempicka's Le Parfum bottles, with their whimsical fairy-tale inspired designs, nestled against the stark sophistication of Van Cleef & Arpels' First, which juxtaposed modernist clarity with floral complexity. These fragrances were not merely perfumes; they were gateways to bygone eras, each spritz a revival of their time.
Further exploration revealed a store dedicated solely to the lost art of ashtrays. Here, glass, ceramic, and metal were sculpted into receptacles for ash—each piece a silent witness to countless conversations and smoke-filled contemplations. The collection ranged from simple mid-century modern designs to ornate Art Nouveau pieces, each carrying the residue of a thousand stories.
Nearby, a shop of vintage cameras offered a different kind of lens on history, each device having captured moments that shaped personal and collective memories. From bulky leather-bound models to sleek 20th-century designs, these cameras were the eyes through which we might view the past.
The area dedicated to furniture and lighting was a chronological disruption—Louis XV armchairs sat regally beside starkly minimalist Serge Mouille fixtures. Here, the old flirted with the new, creating a visual and temporal dissonance that was both jarring and harmonious.
As the hours slipped by, I found myself amid a dizzying array of silver flatware, postcards, church relics, and books—each item a fragment of a larger historical puzzle. A corner dedicated to antique Louis Vuitton luggage displayed travel's luxurious past, while piles of old French music records played silent melodies of nostalgia.
My day at the Marché aux Puces was a deep dive into the physical archives of culture and history, a continuous unfolding of stories encapsulated in objects. Each item, from the smallest button to the grandest piece of furniture, offered a narrative, a whisper of its origins and journeys.
Exhausted yet exhilarated, I left the market with images and impressions crowding my mind, ready to be distilled into the collages that awaited their creation back at my apartment. Today's expedition was not just a shopping trip; it was an odyssey into the heart of Paris's storied past, captured through the lens of its enduring artifacts.
Echoes of Ink and Bread: Day 10
Morning 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.
Morning 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.
Lunch was a choreography of flavors—frittes sizzled, mushrooms sighed in butter, and camembert surrendered to the heat, a mélange that reset my senses. I chewed through the crisp, the soft, the earthy, and the rich, each bite a full stop in the sentence of my morning marathon.
Post-meal, the city beckoned for a walk—a palate cleanser for the mind. I drifted through covered passageways, those corridors of yesteryear where time pools in the corners like spilled ink. Each shop was a letter in an alphabet I longed to decipher: print shops with their inky fingers, stamp shops pressing history into paper, bookstores cradling the dusty spines of forgotten words.
Details layered upon details, a visual recursion. My eyes, hungry for the unscripted, devoured the scenery—each passageway a narrative arc, each archway a portal to chapters unwritten.
Ascending the hill, Le Pain Retrouvé beckoned with its yeasty embrace. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of baked heritage. Panettone dangled like chandeliers, focaccias like tiled mosaics, croissants twisted like golden question marks. I left with a quiche, its warmth promising comfort.
Evening fell like a curtain. Graphic design awaited, the screen a canvas for collages yet unborn. Fragrance bottle sketches spread across the table, their lines and curves tentative sketches of future vessels. My apartment—a studio of scents and sights, where art is born not from oil or acrylic, but from pixels and dreams.
Tonight, part of this tale will be handwritten, a script of loops and lines that dance between the digital and the tangible. The pen, an extension of thought, spills across the page—a visual whisper of the day’s echoes.
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.
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.
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, Collages, and the Golden Arches: Day 7
A week has passed—an orbit around a sun made of espresso, baguettes, and the hum of a camera shutter. I sip my coffee as the day begins, a loop I don’t dare break. The laptop glows with edits, pixels becoming faces, colors becoming memory. Eleven o’clock sneaks up like a shadow on the wall.
A week has passed—an orbit around a sun made of espresso, baguettes, and the hum of a camera shutter. I sip my coffee as the day begins, a loop I don’t dare break. The laptop glows with edits, pixels becoming faces, colors becoming memory. Eleven o’clock sneaks up like a shadow on the wall.
Go arrives. From Tokyo to Paris, we exchange stories about the labyrinth of creativity. My mind, still tethered to retouching, takes the shoot in a natural direction—close-ups, faces fragmented into collages in my head. Go’s expressions tell stories I don’t yet know how to write. When we finish, the golden arches call us. McDonald’s Paris: a paradox of the familiar and the foreign. Fries that taste like nostalgia, burgers wrapped in intrigue. The birthplace reimagined.
Back to my apartment, Aapo arrives. We dive into the shoot, the conversation orbiting art and movement. I show him the collages that pulse like living things, fragments of color and texture stitched together by imagination. His excitement mirrors mine; the future of these images glimmers in our shared anticipation.
Afterward, the city whispers, and I wander. The Moulin Rouge windmill spins lazily, a relic of Parisian spectacle. Down the hill, my feet trace streets that no longer feel foreign. My internal compass aligns, the map of Paris slowly etching itself into my memory.
Today’s fixation? A laundromat. Circles of dryer doors reflect the endless loops of this city, this week, my thoughts. The machines hum their mechanical song, a rhythm that matches my steps. Circles inside circles, a motif that won’t let me go.
Back at my apartment, dinner is ramen. A simple bowl, a spiraling reflection of the day’s themes. Circling back through the week in my mind, I see the loops:
Weekly Recap:
Day 1: Bent wire becomes sculpture. Trash cans whisper poetry. Aldehydes and buttery air swirl into eggshell blue, and Paris exhales cigarette smoke like an artist puffing on inspiration.
Day 2: A dome devours me—a Saint Honoré cake alive with golden arches. Sacré-Cœur sits atop a hill paved with pastries. The carousel spins, a kaleidoscope of sugary visions.
Day 3: Grapefruit bursts through Hedonist’s amber fog. The Arc de Triomphe becomes a portal, old stones bending into floral textiles at Yves Saint Laurent’s world of petals and gowns. Somewhere, a voice sings me back to the Seine.
Day 4: Jazz notes carve shapes in the cold air. Sea urchins spill golden secrets into stainless steel trays. Scallop shells march in rows, repeating the mantra of old cabaret posters. My battery blinks its last, but I keep moving.
Day 5: Sicilian lemons tossed into the trash—what is old, what is new? Pop art unfolds in grocery aisles; marbled meats and neon fruits sing in harmony. Charging batteries, I recharge myself.
Day 6: Lane’s photos ripple into the past, colors spilling into black-and-white memories. A comic artist’s studio brims with ink and paper, old and new colliding. Glass reflects stone, chocolate bridges centuries, and the Eiffel Tower’s light twinkles like a memory already forgotten.
Today was circles: the dryers, the ramen bowl, the rhythm of a week replaying in my mind. A paradox of completion and continuation. The city folds back into itself, and I follow its loops, always beginning, always ending. Tomorrow will come, and the circle will turn again.
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.
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.
Charging Batteries, Tossed Lemons, and Fragrance as a Symphony: Day 5
The day began not with sunrise, but with an espresso barely strong enough to pull me from the haze of sleeplessness. My shower was a waterfall of heat, coaxing my mind into coherence. Grand Musk lingered on my skin, spicy, woody, animalic—a second skin of warmth. My camera battery blinked in its death throes. I had none of its resolve.
The day began not with sunrise, but with an espresso barely strong enough to pull me from the haze of sleeplessness. My shower was a waterfall of heat, coaxing my mind into coherence. Grand Musk lingered on my skin, spicy, woody, animalic—a second skin of warmth. My camera battery blinked in its death throes. I had none of its resolve.
The model, Lane, arrived promptly at 11. A creative himself, he brought an energy that matched mine, though I was running on fumes. The shoot unfolded like a dream on borrowed time. Each shutter click felt like a heartbeat stolen from the blinking red light of my camera. I kept thinking: These images will collage themselves someday. Shapes will overlap. Meanings will multiply. But not yet.
The battery gasped its last. The shoot wrapped with a smile, and Lane left me with Parisian recommendations—a breadcrumb trail I could barely follow. I needed espresso. I needed a camera shop. I needed the buzz of life, not the static of anxiety.
On the way to salvation (or, at least, a battery charger), I detoured into Etat Libre d’Orange. The air inside was thick with mischief and memory. I asked to re-smell Secretions Magnifiques—a scent of metal, salt, and skin. The saleswoman smiled and sprayed my wrist. We talked about fragrance as art, as emotion, as storytelling. I discovered I Am Trash—an olfactory paradox of rotting apples and fermenting flowers. Then Afternoon of a Faun transported me to a forest damp with morning dew. On my other wrist, a Harrods exclusive oud transformed my perception of shape and smell: angular, jagged, unlike anything I’d known. Art in a bottle.
But the battery loomed. I pressed on to the camera shop, where language barriers wrapped me in knots. Did he have the charger? He did. Then he didn’t. Then he did again but couldn’t sell it. A second shop was only blocks away. Hope persists. There, the man smiled and said, Lucky you—this is the last one. Relief, a purchase, and at last, a path back to the essence of calm.
But first, the grocery.
Inside, rows of labels stacked like a pop-art installation. Colors screamed from every aisle: marbled meats, neon fruits, metallic jars. Sicilian lemons caught my eye, their waxy yellow skins promising a burst of memory, of scent, of taste. I cradled them like treasure.
At checkout, the man behind the counter and I spoke two languages that collided but did not combine. He picked up my lemons, looked at me, then tossed them into the trash. The act was surreal, absurd—a punctuation mark I hadn’t written. I didn’t argue. Some losses, like a drained battery, are inevitable.
Back at the apartment, I made espresso. Dinner followed, simple and satisfying, a punctuation mark I could write myself. The camera battery blinked with new life as I charged my own energy: wine, emails, the quiet hum of accomplishment. The day had been a sequence of collisions—lost translations, tossed lemons, and detours into the art of scent—but here I was, whole, alive, powered once again.
In Paris, even exhaustion feels poetic. Charging a battery, whether for a camera or a soul, is an act of trust. The power returns. The images wait. Tomorrow, they will come alive.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
Paris awaits, and I’m ready to create. Are you ready to come along? Let’s go!
Irving Penn: Kinship
Another standout was his collaboration with Issey Miyake in the late 1980s—a dream partnership blending Miyake’s sharp pleats and bold shapes with Penn’s stark black-and-white photography. The graphic nature of these images is timeless, an artistic conversation between two visionaries. I’ve long wanted the Irving Penn x Issey Miyake book for my collection, and seeing these photographs in person only deepened my admiration for their artistry.
Walking into Pace Gallery to see Irving Penn: Kinship felt like revisiting an old friend. Curated by Hank Willis Thomas, the exhibition showcases Penn’s ability to unify diverse subjects—from couture fashion to cultural portraits—with a grace that transcends time.
Hank Willis Thomas’s curation is a masterstroke, pairing images like a couture photograph alongside a dandelion or a biker gang next to the New Guinea Mudmen. These juxtapositions reveal the fluidity and consistency of Penn’s vision, making the contrasts both striking and deeply connected.
Some highlights for me included works from Penn’s Cigarettes series, first shown in 1977. There’s a raw intimacy to these images, as if each discarded cigarette carries the stories of the people who smoked them. I found myself captivated, imagining who they might have been and what moments led to those final smoldering drags. There’s a print from this series at the Met that I’ve stared at countless times, but seeing another in this exhibition brought the same sense of wonder and storytelling.
Another standout was his collaboration with Issey Miyake in the late 1980s—a dream partnership blending Miyake’s sharp pleats and bold shapes with Penn’s stark black-and-white photography. The graphic nature of these images is timeless, an artistic conversation between two visionaries. I’ve long wanted the Irving Penn x Issey Miyake book for my collection, and seeing these photographs in person only deepened my admiration for their artistry.
If you’re in New York City, don’t miss Irving Penn: Kinship. It’s an unforgettable showcase of one of photography’s greats, curated to perfection. The exhibition runs until February 22, 2025, at Pace Gallery.
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.
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.
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?
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.
Sam Morris: Character, Movement, and Pieces of a Boy
AA: Let’s talk about your book, Pieces of a Boy.
This is your second book—congratulations! What’s the story behind it, and what inspired you to write it? How does navigating the creative world of writing compare to other creative outlets you explore?
SM: This book came about at a difficult personal time for me and I found that writing became my go-to creative outlet to cope during that time. The overall process of writing that memoir was extremely confronting, but cathartic, and it has shown me that writing will likely become a huge part of my life moving forward.
Anthony Amadeo explores the creative depths of Sam Morris, from emotive portraits to his latest book.
AA: Sam, let’s start with the shoots we’ve done together in NYC.
We always had so much fun creating those character-based portraits—playing with graphic lines, body shapes, and bold emotive moments. How did you feel stepping into those concepts? Did it feel like acting, or was it more about expressing different sides of yourself?
SM: I always felt like you captured me at my realest to be honest. Those portraits of me through the years (as we did many shoots) really are reflective of my character. I feel like you had a great way of capturing the inbetween moments, which is ultimately where you’re most yourself.
AA: You’re based in Brighton Beach, which sounds so inspiring.
What’s life like there for you? Does the energy of the UK’s coastal creative scene influence your work or the way you approach storytelling?
SM: I moved to Brighton to actually find more peace. I’ve been writing a lot down here and the energy in Brighton definitely contributes positively to that as it has a much slower pace. It’s also a very queer city, so I feel very safe here.
AA: Let’s talk about your book, Pieces of a Boy.
This is your second book—congratulations! What’s the story behind it, and what inspired you to write it? How does navigating the creative world of writing compare to other creative outlets you explore?
SM: This book came about at a difficult personal time for me and I found that writing became my go-to creative outlet to cope during that time. The overall process of writing that memoir was extremely confronting, but cathartic, and it has shown me that writing will likely become a huge part of my life moving forward.
AA: Writing seems like such an introspective medium.
What’s your process like when sitting down to write? Is it structured, spontaneous, or somewhere in between? How do you stay inspired and motivated throughout the journey of writing a book?
SM: I would say I usually write spontaneously, when interesting angles or sentences pop into my mind. Then I will develop the writing from there, in a more structured way. Best piece of advice I had from incredible TV writer Russell T Davies was ‘get it down, then get it good’ - can’t edit a blank page.
AA: You’re clearly someone with many creative sides.
What other creative outlets do you enjoy? Are there any projects, hobbies, or passions that keep you energized outside of writing?
SM: Honesty outside of creating things I really enjoy people watching, both in life and in media. Sometimes reality TV is fascinating to me because I can watch it, almost ironically, just to observe how people express themselves or connect with each other & their surroundings. This, in-turn, usually helps with my work.
AA: If we were to shoot again, what kind of character would you want to explore?
Would it be something bold and graphic again, or are you itching to try something completely new?
SM: Honestly I’m a very different person now. I feel like I’m much more grounded than I was before, and I think that would be captured on camera. I’m older now and I’ve done a lot of work in therapy, it would be fun to see if a different Sam was captured if we shot like before, but I have to admit I am always interested in trying something new.
AA: Finally, where can people keep up with you and your work?
Do you have any upcoming projects, book events, or creative ventures you’re excited to share?
SM: Honestly I plan to write more in 2025, and I may also be looking into working on some sort of adaptation of my book Pieces Of A Boy - so watch this space I guess.