Soap bubbles, with their iridescent sheen and delicate form, are a sight to behold. Their beauty lies in their fragility and ephemerality, as they shimmer in all the colours of the rainbow, a fleeting moment of joy that will be gone no matter how gently you try to touch them.
A soap bubble is a metaphor for happiness: Often, pure and utter happiness is fleeting, lasting just a moment before other emotions take over. The best things in life, like soap bubbles, form, shimmer, and then vanish, reminding us to appreciate the transient nature of life’s joys.
Each soap bubble is unique, like every happy moment and every individual journey. The bubbles connect and interact with each other just like people. They influence each other and change shapes when they collide. Sometimes, they kiss, and sometimes, they even make love.
Soap bubble, I like you; let’s play together and wonder!
Growing up in a village was not easy for a girl like me. But I can’t and don’t want to say if it was my doing or the village’s doing. Maybe growing up is not easy at all, and certainly not for artistic people.
Of course, there was a time when I blamed the village, Appenzell. Of course, there was a time when the girl who got beaten at school, mobbed and laughed about just wanted to leave the place of discomfort behind. I wanted to be a modern city girl, so I transformed into a version without a trace of countryside roots.
When I left Appenzell, I went far away. The same country was not enough, so I went to London, where I found more of myself than anywhere else. As the years passed, I learned to reconcile my story’s contradictions. This process also brought peace about my past; my feet touched Appenzell’s ground again.
I saw the place from a visitor’s point of view now: a village like one from a Disney story with cute, colourful houses, impressive craftsmanship that even visitors can easily experience, and the biggest surprise: amiable people who were interested in the weird pink girl and her wild world. I felt at peace and fell in love with this place. A forgotten corner of my heart was filled with light.
So I walked through the streets with my head high, did this Cruella-inspired photoshoot with dogs lent by two lovely ladies and thought: Damn, if the girl in me would see me, she would like to be exactly who I am now. Thank you, Appenzell; I will be back!
Photographer: Fabiana Nunes Dogs: Kindly lent to me by two lovely ladies
What does the Playboy have in Common with Easter? Of course, the bunny! While one represents rebirth, the other represents sexuality. In Alice in Wonderland, the rabbit stands for curiosity, and the Chinese Zodiac sign Rabbit represents cleverness and agility.
No matter what you see in a bunny, I wish you a happy Easter. I kept up my tradition of doing an Easter shooting. Thanks to my dear photographer Paco, this year tops everything.
Yes, even the one I did during COVID on my own, where I was drinking and spilling oat milk in my bathtub and the other runner-up when I asked in a shopping centre if I could borrow their gigantic display bunny.
So, instead of chocolate eggs, you get a bunny shooting from me every year. Enjoy the holidays, and I hope you like the sweets I have for you.
I grew up in a village so small that there were not even street names. On every hill under the mountains was a single house; people used binoculars to see their neighbours, which tells a lot about the distance and human curiosity. I can’t say for sure, but sometimes I felt there were more foxes and cows than people living in this remote place.
If you are bad at remembering surnames, this would have been your dream place: There were only a handful of surnames in the village. The families had nicknames according to their house names or occupations to distinguish between people.
Because my grandfather had a chicken farm, my family was called the “Egg Streules.” People described him as an intelligent man with a head full of ideas who always worked on a dozen projects the village people did not understand. He even invented things and had a weird device that showed moving pictures (yes, that was the first television this village ever saw). Maybe the head of this man was buzzing with energy so much that he had a series of strokes when he was not at a high age. With my grandpa’s mind, the chicken left, too. I was still a kid; the chicken farm was empty of winged birds, and I only knew this man in a state where he had lost his voice and sparkle due to his illness.
But every sad story has some light, so dry your tears: The deserted chicken farm was available as a playground for a little blond Sara whenever she was brave enough to enter. And she was, even if there were giant spiders in front of the old wooden door with a massive key-like form of a storybook. The girl (me) discovered that the former chicken farm still held a few old-fashioned wooden cages and battery farming equipment mixed with mysterious porcelain from a closed hotel. Of course, this was a fascinating place for me as a kid, and everything I found there seemed like a mysterious treasure. The place whispered about its past for those willing to listen. I sometimes felt I could almost touch what was gone, but it turned into dust as soon as I tried.
Despite my love for the chicken farm, I never liked eggs. So, it felt weird being called “Egg Streule” at school, and I did not like it. I was glad when I came out of the village and to a school where people didn’t know about nicknames. They gave me other weird names, but that is a different and very long story. That story also led to me embracing my roots and digging deeper into my family’s history. I became more myself when I accepted that I was a weird mix of a farm girl and a science fiction girl at once. And at one point, I knew: The way led me back to a chicken farm. But this time, I would not be ashamed but make it fashionable. Finally, it came true. Do you like it, Grandpa?
Flying cars? Beaming devices? Food from tubes? Science fiction is full of dreams about the future, but what will my year 2070 be like?
I will be an old lady with wrinkled skin if I am still alive in 2070. Thanks to my vegan, relatively healthy lifestyle and my discipline when it comes to attending my pilates lessons and saying no to addictions all my life, my chances are good that I will be fine.
I won’t fly to the moon or relocate to Mars, but I may have become something like an Iris Apfel of my generation. I will still have pink hair and keep my passion for colours and style. My wardrobe will be a tapestry of memories from all my travels and many years on earth. Whenever somebody asks after a bangle or a jacket, I will have a thrilling story of how I came to this piece, and it will not involve any commercial chains.
Since I will not have grandchildren, I might bother other young people with stories from my wild past, whether they want to listen or not. I might play my age and ignore the fact that they are not interested, and I will show them the crazy pictures I took when I was younger.
Born as a storyteller many years ago, I will have had the time to write my book till now, and hopefully, I did find a publisher. There was an exhibition about me and my style in London, and I put an effort into it, putting all the misfit pieces of my life together.
Hopefully, I will accept, if not embrace, the signs of time my body will carry and be proud of the journey of my body’s changes documented in photography. If some photographers were still willing to take my picture, I would not miss the camera lights, even if my pose might have become slightly less adventurous. I want to inspire and be a positive role model of age. Who needs a flying car when they can have this…
Snow White wandered through the realm one wintry morning, her breath like mist in the crisp air. Among the frosted branches of an old tree, she discovered a crimson apple, its colour a stark contrast against the snow-laden landscape. The fruit beckoned to her, its glossy skin promising secrets untold.
With a mixture of curiosity and longing, Snow White took a bite, the juice sweet upon her tongue. In that moment, a transformation stirred within her, igniting a fire of liberation that blazed through her veins. No longer confined by the expectations of others, she embraced her desires and the depths of her being.
As the snowflakes danced around her, she encountered a group of travellers, their eyes alight with wonder at her radiance. They saw not just a maiden but a woman who exuded sensuality and confidence, unafraid to embrace her true self. Together, they journeyed more profoundly into the forest’s heart, where every shadow promised adventure.
Through their travels, Snow White discovered that true beauty lay not in perfection but in embracing the flaws and scars that made her unique. She was no longer the fragile princess waiting to be rescued; she was the heroine of her own story, fierce and unyielding in her pursuit of happiness. And as she twirled beneath the velvet sky, she knew she was finally free.
Memories of how I ventured into the amber-hued haven of autumn, wrapped in my shiny orange coat. Crisp leaves crunched beneath my boots, their warm tones a prelude to the spectacle of the season.
A delicate butterfly, its wings adorned with patterns mirroring the flowers that once bloomed, danced in the golden glow. Inspired, I retrieved my sketchbook and colored pencils, capturing the moment where the vibrant orange of my coat mingled with the fallen leaves.
The butterfly, drawn to the bright hues, added an ephemeral touch to my creation. Following a soft fragrance, I stumbled upon late-blooming flowers, their petals a mix of orange and pink. Resilient amid the fading foliage, they became the final strokes in my impromptu masterpiece.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows, I marvelled at the unexpected beauty and wondered about the wheels of time. Grateful I closed my sketchbook, a testament to the fleeting yet profound moments of autumn.
In the dim-lit streets where shadows loom, A raw palette of pink, a rebellious plume. Flamingos in the alley, feathers dipped in ink, Against the city’s grit, a rebellious sync.
Pink hair cascades like a neon waterfall, In the underbelly where misfits brawl. A kaleidoscope of defiance, a punked-up spree, In the heartbeat of chaos, where anarchy’s free.
Lips painted in a shade of midnight sin, Whispers in the dark, a dangerous spin. In the underground scene where outlaws roam, Pink’s not just a color; it’s a rebellion’s home.
Flamingos strut with a streetwise grace, In the concrete jungle, a defiant embrace. Pink’s not just a pigment; it’s a state of mind, In the edgy labyrinth where rebels find.
Hair, lips, and flamingos in a nocturnal rave, A manifesto of defiance, a vibrant crave. No fairy tales here, just the city’s roar, In the edgy reality, where pink’s the metaphor.
In the quiet countryside, where time unwinds, White laundry dances in the breeze, so refined. A patchwork of sheets, like clouds in the sky, Hung on the line, where the gentle winds sigh.
Sun-kissed cotton sways from side to side, As whispers of a simpler life coincide. Pegs secure the fabric with a loving touch, Nature’s artistry, a tranquil clutch.
The clothesline becomes a canvas, pure and bright, In the open air, bathed in soft sunlight. Crisp shirts and dresses, a spectral array, Embracing the serenity of a laundry day.
Fields of green, a backdrop serene, Witness to a domestic scene. Purity in simplicity, a rustic affair, White laundry flutters, suspended in the air.
Deep in the heart of an ancient forest, there resided a nymph, her skin painted in soft, ever-shifting hues of watercolors. She wore a dress that flowed like the gentlest streams, its colors constantly changing.
Her beauty was an elusive dream, a tempting vision. Creatures from the forest, from wise owls to playful fairies, longed to see her. They believed she held magic in her touch, but she remained forever beyond reach.
Adventurers sought her, wandering the forest’s depths for weeks. One day, a young soul stumbled upon her radiant glade. The nymph’s eyes held a mixture of curiosity and sorrow. She spoke of the forest’s beauty, explaining that some dreams were not meant to be caught, but to inspire. She left a tear of understanding on the adventurer’s cheek and faded into the forest, her presence etched in their hearts. The adventurer became the forest’s guardian, protecting its dreams and mysteries, like the enchanting dream of the watercolor nymph, which lived on, forever elusive.
