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Zelda Fitzgerald in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald, from Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

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She never sought the fashion world—it found her. What began as quiet fascination soon became a defining thread in her public persona. After her breakout role in Élite, it didn’t take long for the industry to notice her striking presence, her natural elegance, and her ability to embody both softness and edge in a single frame.

Her first editorials were exploratory, intimate, almost shy. But the moment she graced the cover of InStyle España, everything shifted. From there, came Elle, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, and eventually the most coveted titles—Vogue, GQ, Harper’s Bazaar. Each appearance marked not just a milestone, but a reinvention.

Whether in vinyl for Elle México, stripped down in natural tones for Glamour, or transformed with dark hair and bleached brows for Vogue España, Ester Sofía didn’t follow trends, she became one. Designers began to see her not as a face, but as a force. Someone who could carry a collection with her gaze alone.

Today, her name echoes beyond red carpets and magazine pages. She is a fashion icon in her own right bold, unpredictable, magnetic. Not just dressing for the world, but reshaping how it sees beauty, femininity, and power.

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Ester’s notes. 21.05.25, wednesday.

I’m leaving Cannes with my skin tired but my soul glowing. There’s something magical about being surrounded by people who live for cinema. The stories, the lights, the silences between scenes… everything felt electric. I’ve never taken so many pictures, never smiled so much while pretending I wasn’t nervous. But I did it. I hope little me would’ve smiled seeing this version of us. Thank you, Cannes. I’ll carry your light with me.

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merci cannes.

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To the woman who taught me how to dream, how to love, and how to fight for my happiness — I owe everything to you. Your kindness shaped my heart. Your strength shaped my soul. You are my home, my forever safe place. I love you more than words could ever say.

Cuando me giro ella. Siempre ella. Happy Mother’s Day, mamá.

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Ester’s notes. 10.05.25, saturday.

Sunsets hit differently when you’re at peace with your heart. I watched the sky burn into pink and gold today, and for the first time in a while, I didn’t wish to be somewhere else. I didn’t wish to be someone else. I just... breathed. And it was enough. Maybe that’s what healing really is.

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What I love about theater — something one cannot get with movies — is the singularity of the experience and the absence of a final product. The "same" play can never be performed twice. Even if the actors follow the script word for word, letter by letter — even if they enter and exit the stage at precisely the same moment as before — a single breath taken differently will alter the performance.

And what about the audience? You can’t expect to have the same audience for different performances of the "same" play, and you certainly can’t expect everyone to behave exactly as they did in a previous one. A cough, a whisper, or even the disruptive ring of a phone — all of these ripple through the space, shaping not only the audience’s experience, but also the actors’ performance itself. The theater is an exchange, a living, breathing dialogue between those who perform and those who witness. As such, even if you watch the “same” play five times, you are, in truth, watching five distinct performances — five unique creations that will never exist again.

This singularity is not the only wonder of theater. There is also its lack of a fixed, final product. Each play leaves an impression, an aftertaste, a mark, so to speak, on the spectator, but that’s all you are left with. With cinema, the final product is the movie. With theater, there is no such thing. With plays, every minute is the product of itself. Its finality lies in its continuity.

Of course, some might argue that this notion collapses once a performance is recorded. But trying to record a theatrical performance is a futile pursuit; it’s like attempting to capture the moon and its light with an average phone camera. The essence slips through your grasp. The beauty of theater is that every second counts. There is no final creation because each second is a creation, constantly metamorphosing into the next, and the next, until the whole experience dissolves into memory, an aftertaste, a mark. The beauty of theater lies in its immediacy. Every second matters, for every second is a creation in its own right, an act of becoming that dissolves as it unfolds. In this way, theater mirrors life itself.

Both theater and life resist finality. Their "product" is their continuity. This is why theater so often serves as a metaphor for life. Both in theater and in life, every second matters because, at the end of it all, there is no final product. In the end, all that remains is a memory, an aftertaste, a mark left on those we have touched.

Man, don’t I love theater!

musings on theater

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With desigual, as always.

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1984, George Orwell

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but i do

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last days.

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Anne Sexton, Transformations; from 'Hansel and Gretel'

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When I met you on the outskirts of town and I said:

“Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone. I keep waiting for you, but you never come. Is this in my head? I don't know what to think.”

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said:

“Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone. I love you and that's all I really know. I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress.”

It's a love story, baby, just say yes.

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Flowers by Irving Penn (1980)

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Don't worry. If you break, I'll put you back together. If you run, I'm running right behind you. If you burn, I'll burn with you.

Skin of a Sinner - Avina St. Graves

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I just love my friends and family so fucking much. Little bday dump here too cuz this day was the best of my life. So fucking happy.