The clock at the diner said quarter past six. But the reality was different in a world where clocks ran out of battery and had so little importance that nobody even noticed their missing ticking. The ghost next to her held her hand and asked what she wanted.

What question was that? she thought. She wanted everything and nothing and both of them at once. She was starving, and her stomach hurt from too much cake wolfed down after midnight. She wanted to feel the wind in her hair, breathe independence, and stay safe forever in her eggshell.

The coffee went cold while she was daydreaming, looking at an imaginary starry sky filled with the lights of the passing cars. The ghost said it was time to leave. But where to? To the home she never had or the one she ran away from? To the past she was running from or the future she feared?

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was the memory of lemon cake lingering in the air. She saw herself when she looked inside her body and found calm. Not everything, not nothing, but an anchor that kept her in the presence. Maybe this was life.

Clothing & Hat: Vintage, Shoes: Melissa,
Sunglasses: Saint Laurent, Photographer: Roland Urech
Location: Cindy’s Diner

A circle represents totality, wholeness and perfection. There are a lot of circles in life: Day follows night; winter comes after summer; young becomes old. Everything is a circle if you start to see them! All elements flow, change, become what they are meant to be and make space for things yet to come.

The first time I heard about circles as something other than what we had to draw at school in geometry was when I was a little kid. I watched The Lion King with utter amazement on my face. Do you remember that scene when the little lion cub was presented to all the animals, and Elton John’s voice carried the epic scene? 

Everything in nature follows their circle: The flowers with their rhythm of resting, rooting, and blossoming and the bees picking their nectar and making honey. Knowing about circles also means taking care not to break them: To care that what we start flows and continues, not to interrupt circles, and not to cause waste but give a little push so a flow stays in its movement.

Since I saw the scene from Lion King for the first time, I have come quite a way in my circle. Growing up, learning, failing, getting up again, getting older, learning about my limits and discovering I could do more than I thought. Where am I in my circle? I do now know.

What I do know is this: I want to make a big, big rainbow-coloured circle. A circle that radiates, shines and inspires others. A beautifully round circle without any edges that hurt somebody and comes in all colours. Just like my bag.

What is your circle?

Pictures: Greta Schoop
Styling: Greta Schoop & Sara Streule
Hair & Makeup & Model: Sara Streule
Artwork: Safu at The Circle

Bag: I Love Syria, Clothing: Bought in the Provence,
Hat: Chapelaria Azevedo Rua, Belt: Claudie Pierlot,
Cardigan: The House of Foxy bought at Hazels Boudoir,
Shoes: Zara

A coronation occurs today in another dimension: Imagine a pink princess Diana sitting on the throne. High up is her chin, and the smile of the queen of hearts fills the room.

Whatever dimension, princesses have something in common: They grow up in a home that lacks love, and their wounded spirits crave attention. They only believe in their aliveness in the flashlights of the cameras and know how to play it to their advantage. Their desire for love is their tragedy and glory: In the breast of every Diana beats a heart starving and hungry. The disaster escalates if they are bound to men whose love they can never win.

But like every coin has two sides, the beauty always lies closest to the pain, and their past makes them capable of floating whole nations with love.

So tell me: Which dimension would you rather be and shout hail to the ruler in a spectacular parade: One with a dead princess that lingers like a beautiful shadow full of sadness or a dimension with a sparkling pink queen on the throne?

Photographer: Nora dal Cero
Hair & Makeup: Sandra Gimmel
Styling & Model: Sara Streule
Jewellery: Natkina, Clothing: Maroni Vintage
Crowns: One from Etsy, the others lent from friends

Who is on a fool’s errand, and who follows the quest for the holy grail? Time will tell! Who is the jester, and who is ruling royalty? Time will tell! Who is a watch ambassador: Time has spoken: Sara is in Love with is!

My watch is purple, the mysterious sibling of pink. Purple is a colour that has an aura of mystery, spirituality and belief. It is also said that it has an aphrodisiac effect. Maurice de Mauriac, a watch manufacturer from Zurich, makes the watch we are discussing.

I haven’t worn a watch for years. But when the L3 Spheric Purple touched my skin for the first time, I knew those times were over. Does a watch give time a different meaning? It may be that seconds and minutes feel more special when I observe the watch hands moving in circles over the shiny dial plate.

This particular watch had to be presented in unique pictures: The shooting I did with photographer Philipp Mueller takes you to a crazy version of a fictive version of Alice in Wonderland. Do you see the rabbit in the far, repeatedly saying that he is late, pointing at his watch? Am I Alice? Am I the Queen? Am I both or neither? Time will tell! We only know once the story continues…

Watch: Maurice de Mauriac
Clothing: Rubi Baur mixed with accessories & shoes from my wardrobe
Location: Wow Museum Zurich

Pictures: Philipp Mueller
Styling and Makeup: Sara Streule

Pink, like the sky on a sunset in spring.
Pink, like the skin of a newborn.
Pink, like a box full of Barbie shoes.

Pink, like ripe, fragrant raspberries.
Pink, like Amazon River Dolphins.
Pink, like my first teenage lipstick.
Pink, like chunky Himalayan Salt.
Pink, like a flock of Caribbean flamingos.
Pink, like a cherry blossom tree in Japan.
Pink, like Barbie’s dream house.
Pink, like the peel of sweet dragon fruit.
Pink, like the flesh of a Guava fruit.
Pink, like a string of sticky, sugary candy floss.
Pink, like satin ballet slippers.
Pink, like hibiscus blooming in the south.
Pink, like Lake Hillier in Western Australia.
Pink, like a staple of freshly picked radishes.
Pink, like the jolliest doughnuts in the shop.
Pink, like a rose quartz rock.

Pink, like Sara.
What is your shade?

Photographer: Anja Wurm
Styling und Makeup: Sara Streule
Clothing : Rubi Baur
Necklace: Vivienne Westwood, Hat: Vintage
Shoes: all from my wardrobe

Her ancestors were gold diggers. No, not the kind of women the word is used for nowadays, but real gold diggers with washing pans made of iron and cracked dirty hands from the wet mud. Their mouths were filled with rotten teeth, and their smile was also foul.

Just one of their teeth was gold, blinking in the sunlight when they told rude jokes about the women in the village. Their minds were always full of the promises of a shining future that never became the present or the past.

In her sleep, the gold diggers’ daughter heard the sound of moving stones and felt the cold water on her skin. She dreamed of the fingers with dirty nails that touched Welcome Stranger with its body of 72 kilograms of gold. It was the biggest nugget of them all. Her life started as a tragedy since her family was capable of many things, but loving her was none of them. The only problem with her was that her eyes looked like Persian turquoise, while her kin had a lust for gold running through their veins.

Her ancestors hurt the ground with their picks and her delicate soul with their hard words and deeds. She started to wear a veil to spare them from the blue sparkle she was carrying and began to wear fool’s gold because her family treasures never touched her neck or hand. Their misunderstanding was that they believed gold was found when they wounded the earth’s skin, and she would be just like the earth: Revealing her brightest sparkles when injured.

They didn’t know that the earth cried in silence when they swung their picks, and she still cried into her pillow years after she escaped without a hint of gold dust on her cheeks but gaping wounds on her soul. She learned from her past that gold meant no luck and rough hands were not very likely to offer softness. She ended up working in a coffee shop on the highway, serving a little bit too dry cake and a tad too hot coffee to truck drivers wearing lumberjack jackets and calling her Miss Hollywood.

Maybe it was the reflection of the gold of her ancestor’s desires in her eyes. Perhaps it was the absence of it on her alabaster neck or the melancholy that was always around her like a cloud or her very personal perfume. Maybe it was just the desolation of the highway and the lonely life on the road. Something about her made people dream of sparkling things. 

It was so easy to be shining compared to highway reality. On the other hand, the tragedy was that no matter how brilliant or beautiful a woman ever was, she could never outshine the outlandish glam of pure, genuine, solid gold. But she was all left alive, the first in her line of family who was no gold digger and the last one breathing. She smiled, her pink lips moved, and the coffee pot was ready. “What can I bring you?”.

Dress & Hat & Handbag & Necklace & Gloves : Vintage,
Belt: Maya Seyferth, Shoes: Irregular Choice,
Photographer: Roland Urech
Location: Cindy’s Diner

Once upon a time, a girl was searching for her wonderland. She thought she had found the golden ticket until she realised how wrong that belief was: The sad truth was, she didn’t even know her own name. She was called Wilhelmina Wonka.

So she was just a clown; there was no golden ticket. She looked colourful, and unlike other people, her talent to make things joyful ran strong through her veins like an endless rainbow. She inspired people everywhere she went, filling their eyes and hearts with the brightest colour. People looked at her like she was a piece of joy, but they didn’t know that she had a dark void of something missing inside her.

She got up in the morning, filled with colours she collected in her dreams and spilt them onto the world, day after day. People laughed with joy when they saw her, they laughed about her as if she was a clown too, and they laughed with her. She never kept anything back for herself. From Monday to Sunday, she exploded like a colour bomb at a Holi festival daily. What was left inside her then was darkness, hurt, pain and profound loneliness coming to light with the absence of colour. This she kept for herself. It was nothing she wanted to be her legacy. But it caused her more pain than an aching toe or a sore leg. In the dark nights, she forgot everything she knew about colours and her dreams had to teach her like it was the first time she ever heard about her destiny.

She wished so much there was a Willy somewhere out there. He would be just like her, and they would recharge each other while giving their colours away. When the lights of the colour factory went out, she often cried in the happiest place on earth, but nobody ever saw it. Since she covered the traces with happiness in the morning, nobody sensed the odour of a broken heart in the air among the sweet jolly smell of amusement.

This dear reader is the colourful and happy and sad story of Wilhelmina Wonka. She is still out there, looking for somebody to shower her in colour. She has sweets for you all, for sure. And the moral of the story: You never know what’s behind the face of a Wonka, don’t judge it a first glance.

Jumper & Gloves: Anastasia Bull
Blazer: Mugler Vintage, Hat: Chanel Vintage
Skirt: From the Erotic Shop
Shoes: Bordello

Pictures: Tanja Gschwandl
Makeup: Lara Spiess
Styling: Greta Schoop & Sara Streule

“What is the most beautiful thing you can think of?”
he asked. “The moon” she said and closed her eyes.

Oh moon, you make me dream of immortality,
eternal beauty and endless love.
You are the muse of not just one poet and artist,
but you have a hoard of lovers,
worshipping your otherworldly beauty.
Your soft glow feels like magic and covers
a whole planet in a blue shimmer.

Oh moon, every night I try to reach you,
gentle touch your craters with my fingertips.
I wonder if the zillions of myths about you are true.
Do I imagine, or do you keep an eye on me?
Is it you smiling at me in sleepless nights?

Oh moon, you source of wisdom,
you must have seen all secrets hidden
in the darkest dark.
Will you whisper one into my ear,
if I show my naked heart to you on a full moon night?
You have all my attention,
every time you appear in the sky.

Jewellery: Natkina