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There are faces that belong to time, not to trends.
There are faces that belong to time, not to trends. Isabeli Fontana is one of them. A presence that doesn’t just exist but lingers, like the scent of salt on skin after a day lost to the ocean. When she steps into the frame, she brings with her the weight of a thousand editorials, the whispers of Dior campaigns, and the echoes of Peter Lindbergh’s monochrome muses.
On this particular day, we had no grand agenda. Just light, movement, and a hunger for something real.
The Beach
The morning sun bathed São Rafael Beach in golden hues as Isabeli Fontana stepped onto the warm sand. The Atlantic stretched endlessly before her, mirroring the infinite expanse of her career—decades of high fashion, countless magazine covers, and the unwavering gaze of the world’s most renowned photographers. Yet here, amidst the rugged cliffs and the rhythmic lull of the waves, she was simply Isabeli.
She moved with effortless grace, her denim shorts swaying slightly, the sheer white shirt billowing open over a leopard-print bikini top. On her feet, pink pompom-adorned sabrinas, reminiscent of the flamboyance of Spanish bullfighters, added a playful contrast to the rawness of the scene. She strolled along the shoreline, the foam curling around her steps, laughing at the absurdity of such delicate shoes in the wilderness of the Algarve.
“You still find it exciting?” I asked, camera in hand.
She laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “The moment it stops being exciting, I’ll stop doing it.”
The shutter clicked. A moment stolen from time.
The Yacht
Later, aboard the yacht, time stretched in a way that only the sea allows. Isabeli, now wrapped in an intricate lace dress in soft hues of blue and pink, moved effortlessly, as if she belonged to the rhythm of the waves.
Then, in a moment of pure, unguarded intimacy, she lay down next to her son. As the boat rocked gently, she drifted into sleep, her face nestled against his shoulder, a moment of rare vulnerability.
I watched through my lens, capturing the serenity of that stolen instant. But even as I lowered the camera, my mind lingered. Beauty—this strange, undeniable force. Some are adorned with it as if the universe had sculpted them with a kinder hand. Others spend lifetimes chasing it, shaping themselves into versions they hope the world will love. And yet, was it truly a blessing? Or was it a weight, an expectation, a constant gaze pressing down on you, defining you before you could define yourself?
Looking at Isabeli in sleep was like staring at a masterpiece before the museum doors opened. Her features, angular yet soft, carved with the precision of a Renaissance sculptor’s chisel. If Michelangelo had ever envisioned a face for the modern world, it might have been this. And yet, in that quiet slumber, she was simply a mother, a woman suspended between her worlds—the one that adored her and the one she called home.
The Marina
In the Albufeira Marina, the day turned shades of orange and violet, unreal colors, as if the sky itself were an impressionist painting. Isabeli wore a black dress with thin straps. Not just any dress. The kind of piece that seemed made for the alleyways of Paris or the underground clubs of Berlin. But here, amidst the reflections of the boats and the salty air, it made sense. She walked slowly, as if her steps marked the rhythm of time. The photos speak of that pause, that moment when twilight bends down to kiss the earth. No one checks the time when beauty happens like that.
“I think I became a model because I’ve always felt out of place. The camera gives me a place to be. It’s strange, but it’s also home.”
The Hotel
At the end of the day, we finally arrived at the hotel. She kept the same tight dress she had been wearing since the marina. We went up to the terrace of her room, where there was a balcony overlooking the vast blue sky, alongside the ocean. The contrast of the dress was superb. The client asked me to focus on black-and-white photography, but I couldn’t resist when I saw that scene…
She posed, she laughed, she disappeared into herself and emerged again. Then, in the final moments, she switched to a simple white top and denim shorts. It was as if, after a day of slipping into different skins, she had finally returned to her own. The Isabeli beneath the campaigns, the covers, the fashion weeks. The one who, for a day, had let me glimpse something real.
Photography is a strange art. It doesn’t capture reality—it captures perception, fragments of truth laced with imagination. And on that day, I realized that Isabeli Fontana wasn’t just a face that had graced the pages of Vogue. She was a canvas of contrasts, a woman who carried the weight of beauty and the lightness of being. And perhaps, that was the most captivating thing of all.
Awesome 👏 love it
While reading your chronicle and seeing your amazing photos, I felt as if I were transported to that day, experiencing it through your words and images. I absolutely loved it! You are an incredible photographer, and you should consider becoming a writer as well—your ability to describe and capture moments is truly exceptional.