Double Glass Magic

The Double Glass Optic has this gorgeous classic softness to it. Portraits shot with it feel gentle and intimate, almost like memories instead of digital photos. Skin tones look smoother, highlights bloom softly, and the transition into blur feels incredibly natural. What I love most is how easy it is to shape the mood just by adjusting the aperture. More glow, more softness, or sharper details whenever you want them. It gives portraits that emotional depth modern lenses sometimes miss.

Little things

Some days it’s all just tape, kraft paper, labels everywhere, running around like “wait… did I pack that already or am I losing it...” And yeah… sometimes the whole packing process feels kinda exhausting, not gonna lie. Boxes here, envelopes there, coffee getting cold for the third time in a row…

Monochrome soul

Whenever people ask me about black-and-white photography, of course the first names that come to mind are legends like Helmut Newton, Richard Avedon, Irving Penn, Peter Lindbergh, Daido Moriyama, Sebastiao Salgado, Herb Ritts… photographers who understood how powerful simplicity can be.

But personally, black-and-white photography feels almost primal to me. Like returning to the origin of something. Especially when it’s shot on film. There’s this dense, soft, almost velvety feeling to it. It feels deeply alive. Deeply warm. No matter what you’re photographing.

And there’s something about removing color entirely that creates this timeless kind of elegance. Black and white has discipline to it. Precision. It reminds me of that little black dress by Coco Chanel - minimal, iconic, somehow right for absolutely everything.

But more importantly, black and white adapts itself to emotion. It doesn’t overpower the mood you’re trying to show. It becomes part of it.

And honestly, I don’t think black-and-white photography belongs only to masculine aesthetics the way some people assume. It works beautifully in everyday life, and it suits so many women in such an effortless, cinematic way.

I really, really love black-and-white photography for that.

Let it out

We spend so much of our lives disconnected from our inner freedom, from our femininity, from that softer, more alive part of ourselves. So many people are constantly tense, boxed in by circumstances, expectations, stress, survival mode… and then one day you look back and realize years went by while you were basically living inside a shell.

But eventually there comes a moment when you just can’t stay there anymore. You have to break out of it. And honestly, sometimes that release comes through emotions, through weird moments, through tears, through things that don’t even make sense at first. It can feel messy. Strange. Vulnerable.

But the second you finally let something go, it almost feels like you’re floating.

Not literally, obviously. Unless you’re a skydiver or one of those people flying around in the sky doing insane adrenaline stuff. But emotionally? Spiritually? You absolutely can feel weightless. Even being in water can give you that feeling. Like your whole body suddenly remembers what freedom feels like.

And the truth is, we really do need to crawl out of those shells. Because no matter how “fine” your life may look from the outside, living shut down for years eventually catches up with you. People end up carrying regret, heaviness, emotional exhaustion, this quiet sadness they can’t even explain.

That’s honestly one of the reasons I do what I do. When people come to work with me, I want us to create a space where all of that can finally come out. Where they can breathe again. And when it happens… it’s beautiful.

The warmth we carry

I think I’ve always felt deeply connected to the sun. Not even in some dramatic spiritual way, just quietly and naturally. The way your whole body changes when warm light touches your skin after a cold season. The way a home suddenly feels alive when morning sunlight moves across the walls and blankets. I think the sun has always felt very feminine to me. Soft, steady, warm, life-giving. Not loud or demanding, just present. Maybe that’s why I keep painting these symbols and sculpting them with my hands without even fully thinking about it. They feel familiar to me, like something ancient and comforting.

As a woman, I think there’s something powerful in creating warmth around the people you love. Making a space feel safe and alive. Cooking slowly, opening windows in the morning, lighting candles in the evening, touching someone gently when they’re tired, bringing softness into everyday life. I honestly think these quiet things matter more than people realize. Modern life moves so fast now that softness almost feels rebellious sometimes, but I think softness is its own kind of strength.

Wild little things I make

So yeah… besides writing and all my other creative chaos, I make these little handmade things too. Tiny clay talismans, linen bags, weird sun symbols, strange little creatures that honestly feel like they came out of a dream somewhere in the desert. I love working with my hands. Like really love it.

There’s something grounding about clay and fabric and paint. No screens. No noise. Just texture, earth, intuition, silence, music in the background, maybe tea getting cold somewhere nearby.

The quiet things that heal us

I honestly think nature heals people in ways we barely even notice anymore. Not through something dramatic, but through small everyday moments. Sunlight on the kitchen floor in the morning. Wind moving through trees. The smell of rain coming through an open window. Sitting quietly next to the ocean with someone you love and realizing nobody needs to say anything for a while. I think the human nervous system was always meant to live closer to those things.

Sometimes I feel like nature gives the same kind of comfort as being рядом with the right person. That deep exhale feeling. That sense of safety. Like your body finally remembers it doesn’t need to rush or defend itself every second. A loving relationship can do that, but so can a forest, warm evening light, mountains in silence, or even just bare feet touching cold grass after a long day.

I think happiness is actually much simpler than we make it. Good food, soft light, fresh air, someone you trust, a quiet home, birds outside the window, feeling connected to the earth instead of constantly distracted from it. There’s so much beauty in ordinary life when you slow down enough to really see it. And honestly, I think that kind of beauty keeps people alive emotionally more than anything else.

The skincare duo i keep coming back to

Soft skin. Quiet mornings. Tiny rituals. I swear these two products just make me slow down for a second and actually take care of myself instead of rushing through everything. The La Mer oil feels so calming and grounding on my skin. Like… not heavy, not greasy, just really nourishing in this soft, expensive way. And the smell? It literally feels like peace. And the La Prairie cream is one of those products where your skin just looks rested. Even when you’re not. It gives that super hydrated, healthy, “I drink water and sleep 8 hours” look… even if your life is chaos. I’m honestly not into complicated skincare anymore. I just want products that feel good, look beautiful, and make my skin happy. These two do exactly that.

Wanderlust

Film always ends up mattering, but especially when you travel. Digital catches what happened. Film keeps what it felt like. The light gets softer, the moments feel slower, and somehow even the imperfect shots end up carrying the most life in them. I’ve gotten photos back months later and suddenly remembered the exact heat in the air, the noise outside the window, the feeling of being somewhere unfamiliar and completely alive. That’s the thing about film. It doesn’t just document a place. It holds onto the atmosphere.

 

Frosting

There’s this kind of joy you only feel as a kid when suddenly someone gives you a ton of sweets, even the “good” kind, some little birthday cake, and you’re still ridiculously happy because you’re allowed to, because it’s fun, because honestly half the excitement is wanting to smash the cake apart instead of just eating it, and somehow that chaos is part of the joy too.

Abyssal rebirth

Before our first breath, we exist suspended in water, weightless, protected, untouched by the noise of the world. We begin in silence beneath a living surface, floating in darkness like a secret waiting to emerge. Maybe that is why the ocean still calls to us. Why even as adults, we return to the deep to feel the stillness again, to surrender gravity, to remember what it felt like before fear, before time, before becoming.Underwater, we are not escaping life. We are returning to its origin.

Silence that stays with you

Black and white photography strips away distraction and leaves only emotion, texture, and memory. These images feel quiet in the deepest way, like a moment suspended somewhere between tenderness and distance. The softness of the light and movement makes everything feel honest and untouched, almost like a memory you cannot fully explain but never forget. There is something timeless in the stillness, where love feels less performative and more like presence itself.

Baby's first weeks

The world feels calmer, softer, and warmer with this tiny baby in it. Three beautiful weeks of cuddles, love, and unforgettable little moments have already flown by. A lifetime of love has only just begun.

Golden hour magic

Tiny fingers wrapped around soft blankets, curious little eyes studying every blade of grass, and warm mama kisses at sunset. These quiet little moments feel almost unreal, filled with golden light, softness, and so much love. The sweetest memories are never perfect or posed. They live in tiny expressions, messy baby curls, sleepy cuddles, and the gentle warmth of being held close at the end of the day 🤍

Little moments, big memories

Sunshine, sidewalk chalk, little bubble chases, and the sweetest toddler cuddles 🤍

Just a big brother and his baby sister spending the day together, a little clumsy, a little messy, and completely adorable. The kind of tiny moments that turn into the biggest memories.

The quiet magic of being two

There’s something almost disarming about the age of two. It’s not the loud milestones people celebrate or the polished moments we tend to photograph, it’s the in-between. The unsteady steps. The fierce hugs. The way a child clings to a soft toy like it holds the entire weight of their tiny, expanding world.

At this age, children exist in a space that feels both fragile and wildly self-assured. They wobble, they insist, they laugh without restraint and then, just as suddenly, they retreat into something deeply tender. Watching them from a small distance, especially as a parent, is like witnessing a language you once knew but can no longer fully speak.

What makes it powerful is the contrast: they are completely dependent, yet already becoming someone unmistakably themselves. And you, standing just outside that moment, feel two things at once. A quiet ache because you know how quickly this version of them will disappear. And a strange kind of privilege because you get to see it unfold in real time. There’s no way to hold onto it. But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is just to notice.