The adventures of Lisa-Marie and Yasmin

Mario had gone to bed very late that night.

I knew that, even though I myself had eventually fallen asleep from exhaustion. Still half-asleep, I had heard footsteps, the soft rustling of things being moved, the muffled clicking of objects being prepared. It was as if, no sooner had we arrived than he had already stepped into the next day in his mind.

And yet he was awake again at dawn.

When I opened my eyes, the country house was no longer that quiet, dreamlike limbo of the previous day. It was alive. Doors were opening and closing. Voices echoed through the house. Water was running somewhere. From upstairs came the subdued sound of dishes. And amidst it all was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on at first.

Tension.

Not tense tension. More like that of a stage just before the curtain rises. That of a morning that knows it holds something special within.

Mario had already showered. When I saw him later, he seemed awake, composed, almost unusually clear-headed. Not rushed. Not frantic. But focused right down to his fingertips. He had breakfast with the others, spoke kindly, nodded here, smiled there. And yet I had the impression that part of him was already with the pictures that hadn’t even been taken yet.

There were several people there.

More than I had expected.

And with them, numerous dolls.

The sight alone was overwhelming. So many figures, so many faces, so many different moods in a single house. Some dolls were already beautifully dressed, while others seemed as if they were still waiting for their moment to shine. People moved among them with astonishing ease, with a calmness and care that immediately eased some of my initial shyness. Nothing about it felt raw or intrusive. Rather focused. Gentle. As if, amid all the hustle and bustle, there was a shared understanding that beauty needed time—and attention.

Lisa-Marie and I had breakfast as well, as much as one could in our situation, while Mario helped us. She was surprisingly lively for someone who had been half-engaged to the sea the night before.

“So,” she said, doing her best to take in the room, “if it looks like this even before the first shoot, I don’t even want to know how much my heart is going to overreact today.”

“Your heart always overreacts,” I said.

“That’s called passion.”

“That’s called overreaction.”

She grinned. “You love me anyway.”

I didn’t answer. Only the corner of my mouth gave me away, as so often.

As soon as breakfast was over, Mario was the first to turn his full attention back to work.

And suddenly something began that, in retrospect, I can only describe as a completely silent yet breathless spectacle.

He ran up and down the stairs.

Over and over.

Up. Down. Up again. Down again.

Sometimes he carried fabrics. Sometimes a box. Sometimes just a single lamp, then again something small that disappeared into his hand and yet was clearly important. A tripod. A cloth. A box. Accessories. I couldn’t always tell. Only one thing was completely obvious: everything had long since been organized in his head.

Meanwhile, Lisa-Marie and I sat outside Mario’s bedroom and watched him.

Or more precisely: we watched as he flew past us through his own preparations, as if the world around him had faded into a gentle blur and only the shoot itself mattered.

“He doesn’t even notice we’re sitting here,” whispered Lisa-Marie.

“Yes, he does,” I said. “He’s just somewhere else.”

She nodded slowly. “Crazy.”

It really was like that.

Mario was completely focused. Not harsh. Not unapproachable. But so deeply immersed in his task that everything else faded into the background. And strangely enough, that was exactly what was reassuring. It gave me the feeling that I could let myself go in his hands, because he knew exactly what he was doing.

Finally, he stopped in front of us.

His gaze met Lisa-Marie’s first, then mine.

Then he turned to me.

“Come,” he said softly.

And the next moment, he lifted me up.

As his arms wrapped around me and I finally left the ground behind, I realized with a sharpness that almost hurt physically:

It was starting now.

My photo shoot.

Not sometime. Not maybe. Not later in the day.

Now.

I felt my heart beating faster.

Mario carried me upstairs. Lisa-Marie stayed behind, her gaze a mix of excitement, curiosity, and quiet anticipation. For a moment, our eyes met, and she grinned at me—not smugly, not cheekily, but sincerely encouragingly.

Then we were upstairs.

The room Mario led me into was imbued with that peculiar magic of old houses: hardwood floors, light streaming along the walls, corners where the past lingered like a scent. Everywhere there seemed to be little stages just waiting to be discovered.

Mario gently set me down and looked at me.

“Yasmin,” he said calmly, “please take off your top and your jeans. The underwear underneath is perfect.”

For a split second, I was simply silent.

My sporty Calvin Klein underwear.

Nothing more.

And immediately there was that small, almost reflexive flicker of uncertainty. Not because I distrusted Mario. On the contrary. But because the moment suddenly became real. Because there was a difference between the idea of a photo shoot and the moment when you’re actually standing there and being asked to take off your outer layers.

But then I thought of Nathalie.

He isn’t looking to find flaws.

Trust.

And I trusted Mario.

So I didn’t make the fear go away—but I let it pass me by.

It didn’t take long, and before I really realized it, I was sitting in just my underwear on an old cast-iron spiral staircase.

The situation took me so by surprise that my first thought wasn’t shame, but wonder.

This staircase.

The metal was dark, almost black, with that matte sheen that only old things acquire. Behind me, light streamed through a large window, not glaring but softly diffused, casting a delicate play of colors over the surroundings. Dust motes floated in it like tiny, slow-moving stars. The whole setting felt strangely nostalgic, almost cinematic. As if they hadn’t simply chosen a place, but a mood.

Mario gently adjusted my position.

“Just like that,” he said. “Turn your shoulder a little more toward me. Perfect.”

Then other men stepped in to help.

What surprised me wasn’t their presence, but how natural it felt. No one stared. No one made a wrong comment. No one made me feel like an object in a room full of stares. On the contrary. They asked if I was comfortable. If I was sitting well. If my back needed support. One placed something soft under my foot; another adjusted a light so nothing would be glaring.

Everyone was concerned about my well-being.

And in my head, Nathalie’s voice rang out:

Soak it all in.

So I did.

I soaked up the light. The sounds. The concentration. The gentleness with which they treated me. The seriousness with which they staged me, as if it were perfectly normal that everything was focused on me at that moment.

Then the camera clicked.

Once.

Again.

Then over and over.

Click. Click. Click.

At first, I was consciously aware of every single shutter release. Then I lost myself in it. The world became smaller and larger at the same time. Smaller, because suddenly there was only Mario, his voice, his instructions, his gaze. Larger, because I felt the space opening up around me and every tiny corner taking on meaning.

“Beautiful,” he said softly.

“Lower your gaze a little.”

“Yes—exactly like that.”

At some point, I forgot that others were there.

I even forgot that I was only wearing underwear.

I just sat there on those stairs and let the light wash over me. And for the first time, I understood that a photo shoot wasn’t just about sitting there looking pretty and waiting for someone to press the shutter button.

It was a state of being.

An event.

A way of being perceived.

Later, we changed locations.

Another staircase.

This time white wood. Brighter. Softer. Friendlier. Less nostalgic, more like a morning in an old vacation home. Mario handed me a bowl of cereal, positioned me so my legs were crossed, as if I’d just gotten up and sat down on the steps with my breakfast, still half-awake.

I had to smile to myself.

How absurd it actually was.

And how wonderful.

“Exactly,” said Mario. “As if you were just sitting here, having breakfast as the day begins.”

The camera clicked again.

And that’s when I began to understand.

Not just a little.

Really.

It wasn’t about the pictures.

Or rather: The pictures weren’t the point.

The point was that everything revolved around me.

Around my posture. Around my face. Around the way the light touched my skin, the way my leg was positioned, the way my fingers held the bowl. It wasn’t vanity. It wasn’t superficiality. It was something entirely different.

I wasn’t being used.

I was being seen.

With a thoroughness that almost frightened me.

And then a thought came to me.

It was suddenly there.

Without warning.

Without me being able to say where it came from.

Perhaps it had been slumbering somewhere inside me all along. Perhaps it had only just been born in this very room. Perhaps it was what Nathalie had meant when she said one shouldn’t think too much about whether one was doing something “right.”

I couldn’t explain it to myself.

But suddenly I knew only one thing:

I wanted to be photographed completely naked.

No sooner had I finished the thought than I was startled by myself.

“How freaky is that, please?” shot through my mind.

Me, Yasmin, who thought more than she spoke, who analyzed, organized, weighed things—I suddenly wanted to be naked in front of the camera.

But before I could pull myself back from my own thought, I said it out loud.

Openly.

Straight out.

Mario reacted with complete calm.

So calm that I looked at him almost in disbelief.

No look of surprise. No hesitant questioning. No moment of awkward irritation.

Instead, just a brief, barely noticeable smile. Almost as if he’d already expected it.

He turned to a box of accessories, opened it, reached inside, and pulled out a venetian carnival mask.

Black.

Elegant.

A rose sat over one eye.

“Try this on,” he said.

I looked at the mask, then at him, and suddenly this single object seemed to give my restless thoughts a form that was not naked and vulnerable, but mysterious and confident.

He handed me another black feather.

“Use this to cover one breast.”

Then he pointed to a black leather chaise longue in the corner, in front of a skylight.

“There. Sit at an angle. Cross your legs. Look at me. Hold the feather over your left breast.”

I understood immediately.

And I was overwhelmed.

Not just by the idea. But by the fact that Mario apparently already knew it before I even knew I wanted it. How could he do that? How could someone sense a thought before you’d even grasped it yourself?

Maybe that was exactly his gift.

I sank down onto the chaise, just as he’d suggested.

The mask rested lightly on my face. The feather felt surprisingly soft in my hand. The skylight let in a light that didn’t just illuminate the room, but filled it with a quiet warmth.

And suddenly there was something new.

Warmth.

Eroticism.

Not raw. Not loud. Not dirty.

More like a subtle, unobtrusive glow.

I became aware of my own body. Not in that critical, scrutinizing way you sometimes look at yourself in the mirror. But almost for the first time as something that was allowed to be beautiful, without explanation, without justification.

The camera kept clicking.

More men joined in, positioning lights, adjusting reflectors, fine-tuning small details. As if everyone in that room truly wanted to put me in the spotlight.

And suddenly I realized:

That was exactly what they were doing.

It really was all about me.

Not in a selfish, narrow way. But in that amazing, intoxicating way in which a person or a being becomes, for a moment, the center of a carefully crafted little universe.

“Perfect,” said Mario.

“Stay exactly like that.”

“Beautiful.”

The words triggered something in me that is hard to describe.

It wasn’t just pride.

Nor was it merely joy.

It was more as if I were softening from within. As if an old tension were falling away, one I hadn’t even known I’d been carrying around with me all this time.

At some point, the shoot was over.

Or rather: the first major session of the day.

I was exhausted.

Almost ridiculously exhausted, considering that, compared to Mario and the others, I objectively hadn’t “done much” at all. I had posed, let myself be guided, and embraced the moments. And yet I felt as though my whole inner being had been working.

I was just thinking that now my heart could behave somewhat normally again when Mario said with a small, almost apologetic smile:

“Sorry. We’re not quite done yet.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

“We still need a group photo.”

Of course.

A group photo.

All the dolls in one picture.

And for that, naturally, I would have to be dressed appropriately again.

Mario showed me a dress.

Cream-colored with a golden sheen, delicate, with thin straps. It wasn’t over-the-top, not heavy, but possessed a refined elegance that immediately made me think of something I could only describe in those simple words at first:

Princess vibes.

“And this hairpin to go with it,” said Mario.

Then he picked up a gold necklace.

“And this one.”

I almost laughed because, all of a sudden, I felt as if I were made up of several versions of myself. Just a moment ago, I was the masked, completely naked figure on the leather lounger—and now, suddenly, something bright, elegant, almost solemn.

And yet it all fit together.

Perhaps precisely because that day showed me that beauty doesn’t come in just one form.

Once I was already changed, styled, and seated on a nearby couch, Mario helped Lisa-Marie get dressed for the group photo.

I watched her do it.

And I’ll admit it:

She looked stunning.

A skimpy pink miniskirt, a matching top—playful, bold, a little sassy. But the necklace… the necklace was breathtaking. Large, with big flowers, so magnificent that it made the whole outfit look both sexy and elegant.

Lisa-Marie achieved something I admired: she could look as if she’d stepped straight out of a summer fantasy, yet carry something regal about her at the same time.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“Scientific observation,” I replied.

She grinned. “Then go ahead and keep observing.”

More dolls joined me on the couch. Just a moment ago, everything had been work, positioning, lighting, concentration—and suddenly the mood became a little lighter. A man handed us a glass of champagne. A doll rested her head on my shoulder. At first I felt a tiny flicker of shyness—and then the ice broke.

It was amazing how quickly familiarity could develop when everyone in a room was treated with the same care.

Perhaps that was the reason why there was so much love in the air.

Not romantic love alone.

But that kind of warmth that arises when people and dolls exist in a shared moment—not against each other, not beside each other, but with each other.

Then Lisa-Marie was done.

Mario helped us both into the group photo.

And what a picture that was.

Many dolls.

Even more people.

Countless cameras.

Everything was filled with voices, small adjustments, pleading hands, gentle touches. Here someone was turned slightly, there something was arranged, somewhere a light flickered on, someone laughed, someone raised a camera, yet another knelt down to change the angle.

The cameras clicked and clicked.

And amidst it all, a thought spread through me, so delicate and yet so vast that at first I hardly dared to think it:

Are we special?

The answer came immediately.

Yes.

We are special.

Not because we are better.

But because at that moment, so many eyes, hands, thoughts, and so much attention were focused on us that there was simply no other way to describe it.

As evening fell, I had already reached the point where even my thoughts were growing weary.

Dinner was being cooked.

That alone was almost incomprehensible. After that day, after all the stair-climbing, carrying, arranging, photographing, organizing—and yet there they stood in the kitchen. Moving a little slower, perhaps. But with the same devotion as always.

We ate, talked, laughed. I only caught fragments of it, because my heart felt as though it had had to take in too many impressions in a single day. And yet, as tired as I was, I didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

After dinner, Mario came over to me again.

His gaze was warm, but in a way that already hinted something else was coming.

“One last shoot?” he asked.

I stared at him.

“Now?!”

He just smiled.

And in my head, I heard Nathalie:

Soak it all in.

So I didn’t say no.

It was a bathroom.

An ancient bathroom with an old bathtub that, on its own, looked as though it had preserved stories. The light was soft, the walls were old, and the room had that indescribable feeling of being both intimate and timeless.

And then Mario “conjured” something out of thin air:

A japanese kimono.

I looked at him and couldn’t help but smile. How could a person still have the next image in mind when I myself had long since lost track of which way was up and which was down?

“The edge of the bathtub,” Mario simply said.

At that very moment, another man hurried over.

“Wait! I’ll grab a softbox for better lighting.”

I might have laughed if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed.

The world was indeed still revolving around me.

Or at least this small slice of the world.

The kimono felt precious against my skin. The edge of the bathtub was cool. The light was fine-tuned once more. Mario positioned me, not sternly, but with that almost effortless confidence I had come to know by now.

The camera clicked.

One more time.

And I let myself be carried along in these final images as well.

No longer with the same excited alertness as in the morning. But in a deeper, softer weariness, in which I could barely distinguish between myself and the day.

Then it was over.

This time for real.

Mario was completely exhausted.

You could see it in him. His body seemed heavy, his face tired, his movements slower for a moment. And yet his gaze shone. Not frantic, not triumphant—but quiet, deep, and honestly content.

He stepped close to me.

Leaned forward.

And kissed me deeply.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You were stunning.”

Then he gently stroked my hair.

“You’re stunning.”

Those words hit me with a force I had no defense against after that day.

I think it was only then that I truly began to grasp what had happened.

Not earlier on the stairs.

Not with the mask.

Not during the group photo.

Not even on the bathtub.

Only now.

Maybe because the tension had eased. Maybe because his words suddenly put into language everything that had been floating inside me all day as nothing more than a feeling.

I wanted to see the pictures.

Desperately.

Especially the ones from the setup with the mask, the feather, and the black lounger. Those pictures that, if someone had told me that morning that I would want to see them, would have terrified me.

And as I thought about it, something happened that I hadn’t expected:

I began to cry.

Not violently.

Not desperately.

They were simply tears that came because my heart could find no other way to cope with it all.

Gratitude.

Nothing but gratitude.

Mario looked at me, and in his gaze there was immediately that loving understanding that needed no great comfort, because there was no misfortune that needed comforting.

It was happiness that had become too great.

“Hey,” he said softly.

I tried to say something. It failed.

Then only a whisper came out.

“Thank you.”

That was all I could manage to say.

And once again, I heard Nathalie’s voice inside me:

Take it all in.

Nathalie…

She had known what awaited me.

At least in a way.

She had sensed it. She had prepared me. She had told me that Mario wasn’t looking for flaws, but would keep looking until you saw yourself as more beautiful.

And yet—even with all her words, with everything she had already experienced—I could never, ever have imagined that it would be like this.

So intense.

So tender.

So overwhelming.

I thought of her, of her broken leg, of her brave gaze, of the longing she had hidden from us so that we could set out carefree. And I knew in that moment: I had to tell her everything. Not just that it had been beautiful.

But how.

That it had felt as if light itself had grown hands.

That for the first time, I hadn’t asked myself if I was enough.

But had simply felt that I was there.

And that that was enough.

Later, as the day finally washed over me like a wave reaching the shore, I was nothing but tired and full of happiness.

And just before exhaustion completely swept me away, I thought:

If friday had shown me how big the world is, then this saturday had shown me that you can do more than just exist in it.

You can be seen in it.

And perhaps that was the greatest gift of this day.