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.
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Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just a shedding that happens quietly while you’re still going about your days. I’ve been walking through this one with heightened senses — as if everything is slightly louder, brighter, more symbolic than usual.
Pain can do that. It sharpens color.
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Suddenly I was a child again, watching my family make hundreds and hundreds of cookies for special occasions. Every surface of the house covered—tables, counters, chairs—lined with trays cooling before being packed into tins. Cookie tins collected over decades. Tins passed from hand to hand. Picked up by family. Dropped off at gatherings. Always meant to be shared.
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Collection 1, Chiddu ca tinemu, has existed long before it had a name—long before it had an image, a look number, or a reason to be introduced. It lived first in memory, in gesture, in domestic spaces that shaped the way glamour was understood before it was ever worn.
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Today I photographed Doug, and the shoot unfolded exactly how you hope these days unfold—focused, fluid, and generous.
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Julian Barbarino - An artist in the portrait studio of Anthony Amadeo
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Before the year ends, I like to take inventory — not in a business way, but in a what actually moved through my handsway. What I touched. What touched me back. What stayed. What didn’t.
This year, I made a lot. Some of it quietly. Some of it in public. Some of it only for myself.
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This year, I paid more attention to hands than faces.
Hands tell you how long someone has been doing something.
They hold time differently.
They remember things the mind forgets.
These are the hands I kept returning to—the ones that make, that know, that feel, that carry knowledge forward quietly.
Not loud hands.
Practiced hands.
By the end of a year, especially one packed with ideas, projects, scents, sketches, and long conversations with myself, I crave a reset. Something stripped down. Something honest. Something that reminds me why I make images in the first place.
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Every year around this time, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of my own studio floor, surrounded by boxes labeled: Keep, Toss, Transform.
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There’s a strange season that always hits me around the end of the year. It’s a kind of creative molting. Suddenly I want to drain every old file, every half-loved portrait, every forgotten RAW, and move it all into a new home. This year, that home has become my Tumblr—my private museum, my time capsule, my purgatory of past work where everything goes to live again, even if it’s only visible to people who bother to log in.
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There’s a running joke that if you’re standing within twenty feet of me, you’re inside my personal weather system. A micro-climate. A fog bank of oud, smoke, balsam, civet, aldehydes, apple skins, and whatever else I’ve decided to coat myself in that morning. Fragrance for me isn’t an accessory—it’s a psychological experiment I willingly run on myself and the unsuspecting public every day.
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This series was created with Samuel, signed to The Lions.
Photographing him was effortless—he carries a quiet strength and elegance that immediately translated into something sculptural.
There’s something about twins that’s always fascinated me — maybe because I am one. There’s an invisible mirror that exists between two people born at the same time, and it’s impossible to look at one without catching a glimpse of the other.
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When I first came across Arnold Kouassi on Instagram, I knew instantly that I had to photograph him. There was something in his presence that felt like it belonged in the Giant Denim series—his energy, his movement, his ability to create shapes with his body that felt sculptural. What I loved most, though, was that he kept on his own jewelry for the shoot. Rings, watch, chains, bracelets—personal artifacts that added texture and narrative to the images. Those small details allowed the portraits to hold both his story and mine at the same time.
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A. Clown hasn’t been seen in some time. He didn’t storm off stage, didn’t slam the door, didn’t even leave a note—he simply stepped behind the silver curtain and let the folds swallow him.
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A short reflection on scale, shape, and the feeling of not fitting in. A written piece from Anthony Amadeo—before the images, just the words.
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The Summer Issue is a sun-soaked archive of memory, body, scent, and image. From portraits that bloom like plants to fragrances that bottle heat and longing, this issue is a garden grown from nostalgia and stretched into modern myth. Featuring editorial collage, recipes, soap, and spoken moments for hot days and cool shadows.
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There’s a presence in the room before the shutter clicks.
George Maragkos—striking, sharp, and unmistakably cinematic—moves through frame with the ease of someone who’s been here before, even if this is just the beginning.
For years, I nodded along when people would dismissively mutter, "Art is just a bunch of BS."
And for years, I genuinely thought they meant Balloon Sculptures.
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