The Art of Aristocracy

In the mirror, eyes meet. Queens share confidences. Secrets are exposed like decolletage, conclusions drawn like eyeliner. Power and politics are as light as a powder puff, and as impactful as the remembrance of perfume. Masks are removed momentarily, then secured firmly back in place. Princesses gaze at their mothers, popping open golden compacts, longing for a dab of lotion or potion. They are in the circle of influence, the mecca of mastery, the true seat of power.

Electric Paradise

There is energy in all things. In buildings imbued with colour; in the sunset’s transformation. The Santa Maria church in Válega is alive with electric hues and vibrant frescoes that radiate joy, life and passion. Inside her walls, human voices raised in song awaken echoes of yesterday, today and tomorrow. As the sun sets, the goddess of colour sweeps across the town, illuminating stained glass windows, gilding rooftops and bathing us in beauty.

Latte Lullabies

The Majestic Cafe is buzzing. Sculptures smile down from a ceiling of double cream and luscious peach. Conversations bubble and flow, fuelled by an endless current of coffee. At table quatro, sits a quarrelling couple. They gesticulate and scoff, then lower their voices to flirtatious whispers. At table uma, posturing and politics are served with piccolos. At table cinco, a man with a notebook. His hand scurries across the page, as though his wild imaginings will evaporate forever if not captured at once. Tuxedoed wait staff spin on polished heel in seamless elegance. I order a double espresso. It’s that kind of day.

Daisy Daze

We are descended from flower children, crowned in circlets of daisies and wanting for no other jewels. We lie carefree in golden fields, growing disorderly and divine, weaving chains, rings and anklets of blossoms. Grasses tickle the napes of our necks and wildflowers bend their heads to hear our poetry. Each treasured passage is marked with pressed blooms, so we know we can always return to that page, and this day.

Heart of an Artisan

We read tiles like old stories, rendered in ceramic, the colour of daydreams. Nimble fingers fashioned these marvels, and adorned floors and hallways and vaulted ceilings of monuments. Those artisans are lost in time, but we hear their voices through a myriad of marble and glass, colour and sparkle, that glints in the niches of the unpredictable imagination.

Postcards From Porto

It’s midsummer in Lagos and the Praia do Camilo is dappled with colourful beach umbrellas. Bathing bombshells peek over the rims of oversized sunglasses and fashion journals. Children earnestly construct sandcastles while speedboats and kayaks bob atop the turquoise waters. We all luxuriate in the art of self-care. Sunbeds and spritzes, lotions and potions. It’s a picture postcard moment, sketched in vintage hues. One that we will all repeat again tomorrow.