The mountain ridge we walk along is covered in short grass that sways with the steady, pleasant breeze. Further down, at the start of our hike, we came across blue gentians in bloom - I’d never seen so many before. Growing nearby were several of the rare, delicate mountain orchids: pale purple, white, and yellow ones that, with their perfectly rounded petals, looked a bit like tiny slippers. Now we’re too high up, no more gentians, no more orchids - the vegetation has changed. Now it’s only rocks, grass and these little pink flowers that cover the stones like a dotted carpet.

Far off in the distance, beyond the still snow-dusted peak of the mountain in front of us, I can see the antenna of the Säntis, the tallest mountain in northeastern Switzerland. It’s become a landmark that, on a clear day, lets you see into six countries: Switzerland, Germany, Austria, Liechtenstein, France, and Italy.

It feels surreal to be here. Everything has been perfect since the morning. After days of rain, we caught the first day of sunshine. Not the boring one, when there is only blue sky and sun but the slightly dramatic one. An ongoing change between sunshine and dramatic cloud formations that constantly transform the landscape. Sunny, clear views can shift into threatening ones within minutes once dark clouds approach. And just moments later, the clouds are gone and you are back in a serene alpine world.

Below the short ridge in front of us, a narrow trail winds through the landscape, a path so slender that it almost disappears into the terrain. That's the one we need to reach by climbing down along the steel wire. We’ve been hiking for about four hours now, with at least three more to go. And only now, standing on top of the mountain with the silence of the valley in the distance, slightly exhausted from the steep climb, do I realise just how much I needed this. The 4:30 a.m. alarm, that I hadn’t been looking forward to the day before, was worth it. It rewarded us with the beautiful Appenzeller Land at sunrise, with fresh, crisp mountain air of the early morning hours and now this incredible view and the feeling I only get in the mountains. The feeling of being truly connected to nature, and something I feel even more rarely, the feeling of being connected to myself.

We reach the slender path, with cliffs on our right as steep as those on our left that drop into the valley. Every year, a few hikers don’t make it back from this trail. It demands your full attention. Your full presence.

That’s what I love about the mountains. They almost force you into your body. All those ideas about mindfulness, presence and trust - they’re easy to talk about over coffee but to really feel them, to feel them in your body as you walk along a ridge that could kill you if you stop paying attention and if you stop trusting yourself, that’s something completely different. The mountains don’t speak, but they do teach you a lot.

After our hike along the slender path, we descend to a hut that hasn’t opened for the season yet. So we sit next to it on the rocks that have fallen from the cliff above. With a Cervelat (a traditional Swiss sausage) and a piece of bread, we take a break and watch a show put on by a group of marmots. They always appear in groups and warn each other with bird-like whistles when danger is near. It's quiet, and we just sit, watch, and listen to this little spectacle. One of them runs around, hiding underneath a rock that seems to be the entrance to a burrow, while the other takes its position a few meters away, overlooking the whole scene. The silence is broken by two chamois running down a field of rubble beside us before disappearing behind the rocks. It almost feels like a perfectly rehearsed choreography.

After observing this spectacle for a while, we take our backpacks and continue along the trail. The path leads us across a snowfield, leftovers from the past weeks’ heavy and unusually late snowfalls, which had cut off entire mountain villages from the outside world.

The sun has climbed higher now, and with every meter we hike down it gets warmer and warmer. We pass alpine fields that look as if they’ve exploded with wildflowers in every colour and shade imaginable. Small houses are built into the hillsides and stones, like hobbit homes. Just ahead of us, a mountain lake appears, a deep blue stretch of water, perfectly embedded in between two mountains.

It’s so idyllic that I feel like knocking on the mountains to check if we’re actually in The Truman Show. It’s so beautiful, I almost don’t trust it and for a moment, I seriously consider the possibility that this is all part of a perfect set and we’re just acting in it.

It’s early afternoon now, and as we approach the lake, we’re slowly re-entering the ‘real world’ with crowds of tourists walking around the water. With the people, the illusion fades, and the seemingly staged perfection somehow, at least partially, begins to disappear. It’s a slow transition back to the parking spot where we left in the morning.

Seven hours in another world. Present. Closer to nature, closer to myself and I promise myself to do this more often.

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I have a few friends with whom I just love exchanging these kinds of things. Sometimes very specific, sometimes totally random. With some, it’s music, with others, it’s films. Then there are those who enjoy diving into Lebanese literature as much as I do, reading about nice restaurants in Hong Kong that we dream of going to, or learning about how raku ceramics are made in the woods. And of course, there are the friends who are always up for nerding out over science articles or the latest news in AI. So we somehow become curators for each other, filtering out the good stuff and sharing things we might not have come across otherwise.

It also happens quite often that I fall into a rabbit hole on YouTube, or come across interesting articles and topics in magazines or other newsletters.

All these titles and links end up on a few lists on my phone with films I still want to watch, books and articles I’ve been meaning to read, and endless songs and playlists bookmarked on Spotify. And I love them all! They’re like little treasure boxes I can open when I need something new or feel like rewatching an old favourite.

So I’ll open them for you too, and share some of the gems that have been on my mind this week.

books

THE PROPHET - Khalil Gibran

To kick off this new series, I want to share one of my favourite books again. I wrote about it in a post a few weeks ago, but it’s always worth mentioning as it's the perfect book to start this recommendation section with. It’s a small book filled with poetic reflections on friendship, love, reason, passion, and other aspects of life. Each section is brief and nice to re-read from time to time. The Prophet is also one of those books I’ve given away many times as a meaningful little gift for dear friends.

TIME - Etel Adnan

The second one is by a Lebanese author, too. After visiting Lebanon for the first time in 2018, I wanted to learn and read as much as I could about the country, and from it. One of Lebanon’s greatest treasures is undoubtedly the work of Etel Adnan.

Etel Adnan was both a writer and a visual artist. Her paintings and writing beautifully complement each other. She once said: ‘Even when I paint, I paint on the table. It comes from writing, [...] I consider the canvas as a page’. When you experience both her writing and her paintings, this quote truly resonates, as her works delicately reflect and enhance each other.

‘Time’ is a collection of poems that revolve around war, memory, love, and loss - a collection in which Etel Adnan makes the concept of time feel fluid. A postcard sent by her friend, the Tunisian poet Khaled Najar, sparked the writing of the poems that would eventually become this beautiful collection.

I really enjoyed listening to the conversations between Etel Adnan and Hans Ulrich Obrist as well and wish there were many more.

A LITTLE LIFE - Hanya Yanagihara

Intense! is always the first word that comes to mind when I think about ‘A Little Life’ by Hanya Yanagihara. Emotionally intense and extremely captivating. I knew I had to include it in the first edition of this series, because it left such a lasting impression on me. I read it during the first days of the 2020 lockdown, and I still find myself thinking about it from time to time. It’s one of those rare books that moved me so deeply, I couldn’t hold back a few tears. I binge-read it in just a few days, I simply couldn’t put it down.

The novel follows the lives of four friends in New York and captures both the beauty and the heartbreak that shape their journeys. As the characters navigate their successes, failures, love, and heartbreak, the novel delves into the complexities of friendship, the long-lasting scars of past abuse, and the search for healing.

It’s gripping, haunting, and makes you feel deeply for the protagonists. It’s one of those stories that completely absorbs you and keeps you reading until 4 in the morning.

MOMO - Michael Ende

I'm visiting my parents at the moment, and while going through a stack of old books, I came across ‘Momo’ by Michael Ende, one of my favourite childhood books, so I decided to re-read it. I remembered enjoying it as a kid and was curious to see if the story had aged well. I’m not sure whether I liked it more as a child or now as an adult.

Somehow it feels a bit like a mix of an early ‘Black Mirror’ episode and ‘The Little Prince’. It’s a tale about time, presence, and what makes life worth living.

The story follows Momo, a young girl who battles the mysterious 'Grey Men' who steal people's time, leaving them empty and disconnected. It's a beautiful book to slow down with, and one that’s probably more relevant than ever.

A DICTIONARY OF COLOR COMBINATIONS Vol. 1 - Sanzo Wada

Another book, or rather, Volumes 1 & 2, feel like poems in colour. I flip through them often as they have a meditative quality and always manage to inspire me. They're like little artworks in themselves. I also use them a lot and ‘use’ really is the right word here, because they serve as reference books for colour, too and are a perfect source of inspiration for ceramics or sculpture projects. They're small books that are usually within reach, and like ‘The Prophet’, they’ve become one of my favourite gifts to give to friends.

A Dictionary of Color Combinations Vol. 2 - Sanzo Wada

films

LA GRANDE BELLEZZA - Paolo Sorrentino (2013)

La Grande Bellezza is definitely my favourite film by Paolo Sorrentino and makes it into my top 10 film list. The grandeur and decay of the city are beautifully captured, the music is amazing, and the profound questions about art, life, and death make it Sorrentino's masterpiece in my eyes. Maybe it’s also because I lived in Rome for a while, so the film resonates with me on a different level. I can’t even count how many times I’ve rewatched the credits alone.

It’s a beautiful ode to the capital of Italy and to life itself.

PERFECT DAYS - Wim Wenders (2023)

Wim Wenders was invited to make a documentary about Tokyo’s public toilets, many of which were designed by renowned architects like Tadao Ando. Instead of simply documenting them, he decided to make Perfect Days, a feature film in which we follow Hirayama, a quiet, middle-aged man who works as a toilet cleaner in Tokyo. The film is a quiet, beautiful meditation on routine, solitude, and simplicity. It’s a film about finding beauty in everyday life and one that invites you to slow down and truly look around you.

MATCH POINT - Woody Allen (2005)

‘There are moments in a match, when the ball hits the top of the net. With a little luck, it goes forward and you win. Or maybe it doesn’t and you lose.’

One of my favourite Woody Allen films! A classic thriller about moral ambiguity, ambition and luck.

DRIVE - Nicolas Winding Refn (2011)

Another great thriller about moral ambiguity. It starts off slow, but then builds up to an intense showdown. Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan are brilliant in their roles, and the soundtrack Nightcall by Kavinsky is still on my playlist to this day.

TONI ERDMANN - Maren Ade (2016)

A heartwarming and quirky comedy-drama, about a father who reconnects with his distant daughter by adopting the outrageous alter ego, Toni Erdmann. Maren Ade managed to blend the complexities of their relationship with great humour.

podcasts

• I haven’t been sleeping well lately, so I decided to try Andrew Huberman’s Sleep Toolkit (still testing it, so let’s see if it works)

• Sternstunde Philosophie (mainly in German) is a Swiss podcast that features in-depth conversations on philosophical, ethical, and cultural topics

• The Rest is History: The Golden Age of Japan - I always enjoy listening to Tom Holland and Dominic Sandbrook (and of course their beautiful British accents).

  This episode made me add the Japanese classic ‘The Tale of Genji’ by Murasaki Shikibu to my book list

things I can’t get enough of lately

• Frozen raspberries with kefir and cacao nibs! I love this combination

• Browsing Italian palazzi online that I dream of moving into

• Checking out running trails in Italy, because in my head, I’m already sprinting up the mountains

• Going outside on a warm and rainy day, just to smell the early summer

That’s it for today. If you have any recommendations, I’d love to hear them. Always happy to add something new to my lists!

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Reading the book inspired me to learn more about its author, explore more of his works, and visit the places he so vividly described. I wanted to wander beneath the famous cedar trees, breathe in the crisp mountain air, and lose myself in the beauty of Lebanon’s valleys and peaks.

I must admit, I’m a hopeless romantic when it comes to things like these. I easily get transported into different worlds when I read something or listen to music that moves me.

Lebanon is quite small in size - small enough that you can drive across the entire country in just a few hours. That sense of closeness makes it feel like a place you can truly get to know, not just pass through, but experience on a deeper level.

Everyone seems to share a common knowledge of the best nature spots, the most celebrated baklava vendors, and the most beautiful places to watch the sunset, whether in Tripoli in the north, in Beirut, or all the way south in Tyre. Most people know the feeling of biting into a piece of freshly baked Maamoul, or walking along the corniche in the capital, watching the fishermen try to catch their dinner and finding some peace in gazing at the horizon of the sea. It’s a tradition to stop at the pastry shop ‘Abou Arab’ when you go on a roadtrip and share their different types of kaak, a pastry from the region, shaped like a loop, sprinkled with sesame and filled with za’ater or cheese.

In a way, this creates a sense of shared experience, this ‘you know how it feels’ and ‘you know what I mean’ kind of feeling. The kind that's difficult to describe but so clear once you've experienced it. And there are so many of those there. The interesting thing is, that this applies not only to the people who live in the country but to a certain extent also to visitors, like myself.

Lebanon is also a place full of contrasts. It’s a layered country rich in history, shaped by political turmoil, home to welcoming people, a beautiful language, traditional craftsmanship, and, of course, the most amazing food. It hosts one of the oldest and largest Roman temples, the Temple of Jupiter in Baalbek, near the border with Syria. It is larger than the Parthenon in Athens and the Pantheon in Rome. There is so much heritage, beautiful art, and literary treasures. Yet, it is also shaken by violence all too often. It’s a place that rarely gets to rest, a country full of both moments of incredible warmth and soul-crushing sorrow at the same time.

There is a chaotic energy that can be felt everywhere. Many of my Lebanese friends told me that Lebanon and craziness, both in its most beautiful and worst forms, go hand in hand, and I quickly understood what they meant.

The Arabic language, with its emotional depth and poetic richness, reflects this complexity and eloquently captures its joys, heartbreaks, and everything in between.

During my first language lessons in Beirut, our patient teacher, Ahmed, walked us through the complexity of Arabic grammar and the different vocal tones, which I still find challenging. It’s still a mystery to me how anyone can know all the rules and exceptions perfectly... to me, this is pure madness! Although I haven’t yet fully mastered Arabic, I hope that one day I’ll be able to read all the poems and writings in their original form. I would love to read them in the language in which they were written. And, of course, I also hope to be able to read the early works of Khalil Gibran, which he didn’t write in English like his later works, but in Arabic.

One of these is ‘Broken Wings’, the piece that took me on a journey to the mountains of Lebanon in the summer of 2019. I had the chance to see the musical version of the piece at the Beiteddine Festival in the mountains. I went with a few friends who knew the area well and had often visited during their childhood. Going to places with local friends is always a nice experience. You stop along the way for local food, visit their favorite places, and listen to the stories and memories they share with each other. You get a different perspective just by following along.

The festival was held during the summer months, and with the boiling heat of Beirut, we welcomed the refreshing trip to the mountains. As we drove up the hilly roads, the evening mist settled on our skin, cooling us down and making us reach for an extra sweater that I didn't expect to wear in July, especially after spending the last weeks in the city.

The area itself was breathtaking. The small town of Beiteddine is home to the palace where the festival took place, surrounded by gardens and hills. Built around the turn of the 19th century, the Beiteddine Palace houses an impressive entrance that leads to a large courtyard, immediately transporting you to another time with its column-lined arches and passageways.

Once we entered the palace and reached our seats, it felt like we literally travelled back in time and stepped into the world of Khalil Gibran’s ‘Broken Wings’. It didn’t take much, as the picturesque location and the golden glow the stone building was bathed in from the setting sun were already enough.

Then, the music began. The actors and actresses entered the palace, which had transformed into their own little world. It was as if the place itself had become a living character in their story. A tale of unattainable love, societal conflicts, emotional turmoil and the complexities of human relationships.

The actors moved through the building, singing and dancing as they lived their story, drawing us into their world and making us feel with them.

Gibran paints a picture of love in its most intense and transformative form, a love that has the power to both elevate and break a person. The story is incredibly beautiful yet heartbreakingly sad at the same time. The ‘broken wings’ symbolise the protagonists’ crushed dreams, shattered by the oppressive limits imposed by society, the church and hierarchical structures.

The narrator (whose name is not mentioned) falls in love with Selma, who also returns his feelings. However, after their first encounters, she is promised to another man. Her father, also devastated by the news, must tell her that the bishop has decided she must marry the bishop’s nephew. The story unfolds, filled with heartbreak and delicate moments of hopes and dreams.

Gibran poetically captures the emotional rollercoaster they experience, while also exposing the oppressive role forced upon women in a patriarchal society, the corruption within religious institutions, and the restrictive rules of societal norms. His critique can be felt throughout the entire story.

As a reader or spectator, there is nothing you hope for more than for the two protagonists to be side by side. For them not just to dream alone, but to dream together.

Seeing Gibran's work performed in the very country where he envisioned the story made the experience even more special. The beauty of the setting, the fresh, humid mountain air, the world of Gibran, and the company of good friends all came together in the little town of Beiteddine to create a lasting memory.

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Lately, I've been thinking more often about analog and digital worlds again - how they change so quickly, develop, coexist, intersect, and influence each other. It’s always interesting to see how we adapt and what we bring from one world to another, what we consider important and what becomes obsolete.

Many of my friends either never stopped or recently returned to shooting on film next to shooting on digital cameras and phones, but for most, phones have completely taken over and eliminated the rest.

In one of her essays Susan Sontag wrote that ‘to collect photographs is to collect the world’, and while that probably applies to all photography, I’ve always felt it resonates more with film. Maybe it's the physicality of it, the fact that once developed, these photos become tangible objects as well, not just pixels on a screen.

I grew up surrounded by photography. My family ran a photography store, so darkrooms, cameras, stacks of printed images and photo slide nights after family holidays were always part of my life. I remember the fading presence of darkrooms and the first time I held a digital camera in my hands. It was amazing to explore all the new functions and test its limits and possibilities.

Yet, these days, besides my phone, I usually only carry an analog Minolta or a little Rollei when I travel, both presents from my dad and always loaded with color or black-and-white film.

I still prefer shooting on film because it’s such a different experience. It’s a craft in itself. It’s the anticipation after you’ve captured a moment, knowing, or maybe hoping, it will turn out interesting or beautiful. It’s the intention behind each shot, the focus it requires and the surprise you get afterwards. There’s a satisfaction in knowing that every image counts. You have to slow down, observe carefully, and connect more deeply with the moment.

A few years ago, I started a little tradition: Whenever I travel with friends or family, I hand out disposable cameras at the beginning of the trip. Once the rolls are full, they return them to me, and I get them developed when I’m back home. It’s a way to relive the trip through different perspectives. I’m always curious to see which moments they found worthy of capturing, knowing that with only 27 shots, each one is chosen with care.

Of course, we also take plenty of pictures on our phones and by the end of the trip, there’s always that one big ‘Airdrop’ or ‘WeTransfer’ moment - a wave of digital images washed from one phone to the other.

It’s convenient, but after realising I had over 12000 photos stored on my phone, I started to feel a little detached from them. 12000! Taken over the course of maybe 2 or 3 years!

Phone photography isn’t just about photography anyway, and I think that’s one of the biggest differences. Images on my phone serve many purposes, whereas analog photography, to me, is almost solely about capturing a moment.

With my phone, I take a quick picture of a beautiful sunset to share in the family chat, take quick reference photos in the studio to remember which screw I need for a sculpture, or which pigment I shouldn’t forget at the ceramics store next time. I have hundreds of snapshots, chat images, and screenshots - they’re practical, I like them as well, but they serve a different purpose. Mostly, they feel more like quick thoughts and notes rather than lasting memories.

Shooting on film is different. It’s slower and more intentional. Every shot requires thought, a small decision before pressing the shutter. And unlike digital, the final results take time. That’s one of the things I like most about it. Sometimes, I forget about a roll of film for months, and when I finally get it developed, I barely remember the exact moments I captured. It’s always a little surprise, a bit like opening a letter from the past.

This time, I won’t wait too long. The two disposable cameras on my desk hold the memories of a trip to Scotland earlier this year - a reunion with two very dear friends. After years apart, we finally managed to meet again to spend meaningful time together in nature.

For a few days, we left our usual routines behind and set off through the stunning landscapes of Scotland. No laptops, less time on our phones - just the three of us in cosy cabins, hiking through the Highlands, singing Scottish folk songs, plunging into icy lochs, and talking for hours. It felt like we had pressed pause on the rest of the world, embracing a beautiful road trip where we almost picked up right where we left off years ago, strengthening the bond that had always remained, no matter the distance.

Shooting with a phone is effortless; we do it all the time, often without much thought. But with film, we slow down and carefully consider which moments we truly want to preserve.

I’m looking forward to getting these two rolls of film developed and to see which moments my friends chose to capture, which ones felt significant to them. I can’t wait to flip through the photos one by one, reliving the hikes, the laughter, and the quiet beauty of Scotland.

For now, the cameras still sit on my desk like little time capsules, holding on to those memories for just a little while longer.

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That’s all for later.

It begins with a little story and a trip through one of my favourite European countries - Italy.

Anna, a good friend and I, took a break from our studies in Rome and hopped on a train south to escape to the Coast of Amalfi for a few days. In some countries, I enjoy taking the train more than in others. Italy is definitely one of them. You're forced to slow down and enjoy the views passing by the window as the train stops at literally every single little station along the way.

We arrived in Sorrento from where we continued our journey by bus, driving through breathtaking scenery, where winding roads revealed new stunning views at every turn. We were looking forward to a few days of hiking and il dolce far niente, getting tipsy from limoncello and eating so much good food that it would keep us awake at night, because our stomachs would be hopelessly overwhelmed by its richness.

The Coast of Amalfi is one of those places that imprints itself on you. It’s so beautiful with its colourful houses, the many lemon trees lining the way, and winding streets, that it almost feels cheesy, like a postcard come to life.

We arrived at our hostel. It was simple but warmly hosted by an Italian family. Their living room also served as the common area for guests. There was just one big wooden table in the middle of the room where the whole family and the guests ate together. I wondered if they never got tired of all the strangers hanging out in their living room every single day of the week, I probably would, but as a guest, for a few days, I loved it.

The hostel doubled as a cooking school, with people visiting from all corners of the world to stay and learn and ultimately take home some of the secrets of the famous Italian cuisine. The hosts, probably charmed by our enthusiastic praise of the region, spoiled us with daily dinners and personal anecdotes.

It was nice to be there with Anna. Sometimes, you find these perfect travel partners, friends who match your rhythm, who enjoy being spontaneous and just take the moments as they come. Who know when to stop for a glass of wine, a coffee, or a three-hour long conversation with an old man who lives alone and is thankful for willing listeners. Or with whom you can just be comfortably quiet for a while. Anna was and still is one of those friends.

We noticed two guys working in the kitchen, or maybe they noticed us first. Either way, there was an unspoken spark of curiosity, the one that comes with quick smiles and lingering glances, a bit of flirting. Short conversations turned into long ones over wine, and, as it turned out, they were not only passionate about Italian cooking but also ‘part-time archaeologists’, as they called themselves. Before we knew it, we were on their scooters, winding along the coastal roads as they told stories in that effortlessly charming way only Italians do.

They had volunteered at the excavation of Herculaneum, the lesser-known sister of Pompeii. I still haven't visited. However, I keep a mental list of places around the world that I want to revisit, along with places that were close by but I didn’t have a chance to see. Places that deserve more time. Herculaneum is definitely on this list.

I truly enjoy visiting historical places in the off-season, when the silence makes the past feel closer. In Pompeii, with a little imagination, the streets came alive: children running around, vendors calling out in colourful robes, negotiating prices. Perhaps I’ve watched too many historical films, but the feeling was real.

History there is layered like an onion, buried beneath dust and time, waiting for someone to peel it back. Italy carries this weight of history everywhere. You feel it in buildings, in stones, in nature, even in the language and almost while breathing the mediterranean air itself.

Our two ‘part-time-archaeologists‘, seemed to understand exactly how we felt and took us on their rattling Vespas (I know very cliché but it really happened) to one of their favourite places - a quiet peninsula at the outskirts of a little village. The paved road quickly ended and gave way to a grassy path that we walked along for the last meters until we arrived at a shallow trench.

We stopped.
‘Ci siamo’ - ‘We’re here.’

Anna and I looked at each other, a bit confused, then at the guys, unsure whether something had been completely lost in translation or if our Italian simply hadn’t been good enough yet to understand that this was their favourite historical place.

A funny misunderstanding maybe?

In the end, it was a nice place anyway. Not much history, from what I could see, but a beautiful view for sure.

They smiled at each other, entertained by our confusion, but then started telling us about the temple that had apparently once stood there. Artifacts had been found beneath our feet, stretching all the way to the edge of the plateau, where the ground met the sea.

To anyone else, and, at first, to us as well, it looked like nothing more than a simple pit. A bit of dirt next to the sea, but through their stories, and with every word a little more, the past took shape before our inner eyes. They were true masters at painting this vivid picture: the heroic columns, the rituals that had once taken place there, and the life around the temple complex itself.

To this day, I am not sure if it was true or not, if there really had been a massive temple, or if they simply enjoyed embellishing the story, charming us, and making us happy.

But it doesn’t matter, because it worked. We had the most unforgettable day of our trip, surrounded by the suddenly very meaningful dirt beneath our feet and the hidden traces of this distant world of the past.

Anna and I jumped into the trench and started digging with our bare hands. ‘This must be what a gold rush feels like’, I thought. Within moments, my fingers closed around a shard of painted ceramic. Just a fragment, it was a small piece, maybe 3x4 cm, but in my hands, it felt almost sacred. Someone, thousands of years ago, had shaped and painted this! ‘Crazy!’ I thought, and I still get goosebumps thinking about the moment when I found it now. Probably insignificant to most people, but to us, these little ceramic shards were priceless. I still have two small pieces, stored carefully in a small box.

I hadn’t thought much about them nor this autumn day at the Coast of Amalfi until recently, when I found the pieces again and when I asked myself why I love ceramics so much.

I started working with ceramics when I went to the art academy in Amsterdam. I had always thought I’d focus on photography, my other great love. However, after experimenting with different materials, I found myself drawn back to ceramics, and one of the first things I made from clay was a vase.

I started collecting these vessels, gathering their shards and working with the broken pieces, too. For the past six or seven years, my studio has been filled with them. There is something ancient and so human about their form, the way they are made, and the history surrounding them.

I don’t use a wheel like traditional ceramists. I build them by hand, shaping coils and fusing pieces of clay together, but I mostly mould them from broken shards that I collect and reuse inspired by the Japanese art of kintsugi - the practice of mending broken ceramics by emphasising the cracks, celebrating the beauty of imperfection. In a world obsessed with flawless surfaces, this has always felt like an act of quiet rebellion.

Clay itself is a deeply grounding material. It literally comes from the earth, you can find it in forests, riverbanks, and fields. It holds the warmth of your hands when you work with it or cools them down. It demands presence. You can’t rush it, you can’t cheat it. It collapses if you’re not paying attention. You learn its moods, its needs, when to add water, when to wait, and when it’s best to shape it. And when you fire it, the transformation is final. There’s no going back. Unlike painting or carving wood, where endless adjustments can be made, ceramics force a decision. Once in the kiln, the shape is set. The clay fuses at over 1,000 degrees, turning sand and minerals into something lasting. Every time I fire a piece, this process still amazes me.

Today, everything seems replaceable. Objects and clothes are discarded quickly, updates on our computers replace old data in an instant, and even our memories saved on phones, hard drives, and in clouds are just one click away from disappearing into the digital nothingness.

In a world that moves so quickly, vases however, somehow endure and they haven’t changed much over time. Now of course there are also Sci-Fi-like designs generated by AI and 3D-printed vases made from all kinds of materials, but the object itself, in its most simple form, is still everywhere. In fact, if you look around while reading this, chances are quite high that there is one near you at this very moment.

And vases have been around for centuries, carrying history within them. They have carried water and oil, their surfaces have told stories, they have held offerings to gods and treasures for the dead. They have been gifts to warriors, vessels of ritual, and symbols of love and loss. Today, vases can be found in nearly every history museum around the world, displayed as precious objects and as a medium that tells us something about how our ancestors lived.

And, also today, you can buy large quantities of mass-produced ceramics, manufactured in such enormous volumes that they become cheap and perfectly identical, untouched by human hands. They fill department stores, decor shops, and gift boutiques. Most likely, this will also be something written about in the future when online shopping has replaced most stores, and the very act of going to a physical place to buy an object feels special.

Yet, even now, a vase has a special charme when it's handmade. The human touch adds something unique, it makes it more relatable. Some artists and designers are even working to bring this idea back into industrial production. They encourage factory workers to remove vases from moulds by hand, allowing for slight deformations that make each piece unique. In this way, even in mass production, they seek to preserve the imprint of the maker. There’s a growing understanding that the human hand is integral to the process, and as consumers, we perhaps more than ever, long for this connection, for that human touch. It seems to give us a comforting sense to know that someone crafted it by hand, putting their own energy and skill into it, and now we hold it in our own hands.

Maybe it all sounds a little bit romantic and oldschool, a bit like analog versus digital. But don’t get me wrong. That’s not the point. I’m certainly not one of those pessimistic about new technologies. Quite on the contrary! I’m excited to see how AI, blockchain, and other innovations evolve and how we can use them in new creative ways. We’re living in crazy times, but also in incredibly exciting ones! Bitcoin and AI are becoming the new currencies and artifacts of our time, encoding meaning and carrying value.

Yet, there’s a profound difference.

Handcrafted ceramics are shaped by hands that smooth, shape, and leave personal marks. Each piece carries a trace of history. Technology creates, but it does not feel (yet, at least).

No one knows where this rapid change will take us - it’s both unsettling and thrilling at the same time.

But I do know this: Humans need humans. They always have.

Today, 'handmade' means more than just quality. It represents closeness, something special and a link to something real. A simple vase, holding flowers on a windowsill, can stand for the connection we all long for.

Maybe next time when you spot one at a flea market, sitting on a shelf in your house, behind glass in a museum, or abandoned in a giveaway box on the side of the street, you might look at this seemingly mundane object differently, just as I did when I rediscovered those ancient shards and asked myself once again why vases hold such a special place for me.

A vase is a quiet reminder that some things in life remain essential, both in function and meaning. Its most basic function is, it quite literally carries water, just as human connection carries something just as vital, something that will never be replaced.

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– Etel Adnan -

I learned English, French, and Italian in school, or at least, I was taught them. The true language learning didn’t happen in the classroom, it happened on scooters through curvy streets on the coast of Amalfi, in French village bakeries, on hikes through the mountains of Lebanon and while watching Thai soap operas.

"Each language is a world, a cosmos," as Lebanese poet Etel Adnan once said. Having learned seven languages, I couldn’t agree more with this idea. Every language is a portal to another world, offering unique perspectives and insights. It is the cradle of culture, of living together. It helps us understand each other and, more importantly, creates connections while opening up new perspectives on the world.

For me it started as a teenager with the love for Italian culture and its beautiful language.

I had always loved Italy - the vibrant street life, the theatrical way people speak, the passion in their voices, la dolce vita, the food, the architecture, and the charm of its breathtaking landscapes. Not to mention the Ape 50s cruising through the streets like something out of a movie (one day I’ll have one and do exactly that!). Definitely a romanticized view, I must admit, but that’s where it all began.

But beyond the beauty and romantic view I had of Italy, it’s where I truly learned Italian. And with it, I discovered something that seems obvious but that I only fully understood through experience: language is easiest to learn in context, in daily life, and it fosters trust between people.

I remember a quiet afternoon in Sicily, traveling with a friend during the off-season. We wandered into a small, empty restaurant, where the staff greeted us in polite but broken English.

We were the only guests. On the menu: arancini, fish risotto, and cannoli - a culinary dream! It was a small, family-run ristorante, probably there for decades, judging by the décor. The older lady who greeted us was nice, yet there was a sense of unusual formality between us. She tried to explain the menu in English, and we could feel the slightly distant ‘tourist treatment’.

Then, we responded in Italian.

Almost instantly, her eyes lit up, and she almost seemed relieved. After our delicious meal, the lady and her husband joined us for a caffè, and after many espressos and a bottle of wine later, we were chatting about the region, exchanging stories, and getting tips on what to see and do. They gave us advice on what we definitely shouldn’t miss while we were there. Real Italian hospitality. I loved the pride they had in their village, region, cuisine, and local dialect, and I was happy to see how pleased they were that we appreciated it so much and made an effort to learn about it.

Speaking Italian turned us from tourists into guests and thanks to the language we could walk through the door into this beautiful Sicilian world.

Thanks for reading and let the language journey begin!

Nadja