You would have noticed the lake first. Not its color, but the way it refused all haste. The water held the world in a kind of suspense. Sounds arrived muted. Time loosened. Even the air seemed to wait.
She stood near, without touching. Touching would come later, if it came at all. For now, only the space between is charged and uncertain.
She was young in that absolute way, belonging wholly to the present, as if the future had not yet invented its claim on her. Blue eyes that never settled, restless, alive with a light that seemed to come from within. They shifted constantly, taking everything in, giving nothing away. When she smiled, it began there, in the eyes, slowly, as if the smile itself were a secret she allowed to surface. When she spoke, her face followed the words, playful one moment, suddenly serious the next, the nose wrinkling faintly, a small involuntary confession that each thought surprised even her.
Brown hair fell loose around a face shaped like a heart, a face that could not remain indifferent. It changed without warning. She made small faces unconsciously. Gestured with her hands. Shrugged. Laughed softly. Tilted her head as though listening to something only she could hear. A carefreeness so complete it seemed dangerous, the kind that vanishes the instant it is named.
She wore a pale blue dress, old, worn, soft, its color close to her eyes yet not imitating them. A thin black ribbon at the throat, precise, almost severe, held everything else in delicate balance. On land, she kept her height modest in flats. But the moment she stepped into the Riva, she slipped them off without thinking, bare feet finding the warm varnished mahogany as if the boat had been waiting for exactly that.
A faint scent of citrus clung to her. Not perfume, something cleaner. Lemon peel. Sun on skin. It revealed itself only when you were already too close to pretend indifference.
You felt it then, the quiet, almost forbidden excitement of wanting to photograph someone who did not need direction. She existed so entirely in the moment that the camera would only follow, never lead. She sat without arranging herself. Leaned against the polished rail. Looked out over the water as though she already knew what waited beyond it, and was in no hurry to arrive.
The Riva moved across the lake with its low, steady voice, indifferent to everything. The shore began to withdraw in slow pieces. Villas hidden behind dark cypress. Stone walls. Gardens closing like secrets. There was no need for words. The engine said whatever needed saying.
Ahead, Villa del Balbianello waited on its promontory, half concealed, half revealed.
What happened next did not belong only to the crossing. It had already begun, in the suspension of the lake, in the nearness without touch, in the way her eyes refused to settle.
Extended stories, unpublished images, and the private archive.
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