The window was made for views. Today, she is the view.

She stands naked in the recess, leaning back as if she were holding up the whole building. Her toes still touch the floor, her arms reach up to grasp the frame. Holding on or letting go — hard to tell.

Light creeps in from outside, turning her body into maps of light and shade. It draws lines across shoulders, waist, legs. Every curve becomes an event, every shadow a story.

Outside, the balcony and its ornaments blur, the house opposite behind it. None of it matters. The world out there can wait. In here, something else is happening. A window becomes a stage; a woman, a breathing sculpture.

She stands calmly, but there’s a simmer underneath. Tension and lightness, control and the moment where control lets go. The frame holds her — but she needs no frame. She is one.

Classical nude photography? Not quite. This is architecture made of flesh and blood.

Read more in the blog.