A Day with Jean-Pierre by Baksa Cosima Zanni (Translated from German by Simone Rauhofer)

Once upon a time… That is how most stories begin… and so does mine.

Once upon a time there was a painter named Jean-Pierre who lived in a house with as many rooftop terraces as rooms. If one spent a single day with him, time would lose all meaning: minutes became hours, hours became days, days became months, and months became years. The seasons passed by and transformed the landscape; the trees changed the color of their green leaves and eventually became bare and old… but not oneself. One felt eternally young as long as one was allowed to remain in his presence, even if only for a single day.

There is also a princess in my story, who pleaded with her lord:

“Please make me immortal, beloved painter! Let me remain forever beautiful and live for all eternity!”

The artist replied:

“If you spend just one single day with me without concerning yourself with the meaning of time, then you shall become what you desire, my princess. But are you certain that you can devote an entire day to me? After all, I am only a painter.”

The princess bowed before him and answered with a smile:

“I know that you are a great artist. I have seen your works and I know how difficult it is to accomplish what you are capable of. That is why I simply had to meet you! Time is of no consequence. My kingdom can wait! My prince can wait as well! I will make time for you. So let us begin.”

The artist explained that he intended to portray the princess in two hundred different ways within a single day, something she found impossible to imagine. To demonstrate, he showed her a marvelous machine capable of capturing and reproducing images instantly.

The princess intuitively sensed that this would become the longest day of her life, and she decided that these hours were a small price to pay for preserving her beauty for eternity through the artist’s works—especially when, in the end, life itself must eventually be paid for with death.

The princess removed her dress, her jewels, and even her crown, the symbol of her power. Completely naked and free of all distractions, she posed simply as herself for the artist, who by the end of the day had indeed immortalized her in two hundred different ways.

Tired, hungry, exhausted, and utterly detached from any sense of time, they finally finished their work after day had already given way to night.

Beside the fireplace stood a large table where they sat down together to rest. The painter invited the princess to share dinner with him and his wife, an invitation she gladly accepted. As the fire burned warmly and invitingly, and the delicious aroma of the evening meal began to fill the room, the painter’s enchanting wife joined them. She was every bit as beautiful as in the many pictures the princess had already seen of her.

With a bottle of exquisite red wine, they celebrated the wonderful meal as the perfect conclusion to a single unforgettable day—a day in which time had ceased to matter.

Through his works, the artist had created a new form of art, and the princess had stopped time itself.

Even after many centuries had passed, the princess’s eyes still seemed to speak to everyone who gazed upon them:

“My master and I are still here, welcoming all who enter this wonderful world where time has no meaning, and where a single day lasts for eternity.”

This translation aims to preserve the fairy-tale tone and literary style of the original while reading naturally in English.

The Dream of Flyingby Cosima Zanni

The Dream of Flying by Cosima Zanni (Translated from German by Simone Rauhofer)

I did not know Jean-Pierre particularly well on a personal level, but I knew and greatly admired his works. Unfortunately, I had not yet been fortunate enough to collaborate with this remarkable artist, but I was determined to offer him my body for his art, provided that he wished it as well.

I had passed by his gallery before and remembered that he had given me his business card some ten years earlier. I must have misplaced it somehow, because I certainly would never have simply lost it, let alone thrown it away. I simply had to meet him.

So I called him on the telephone and suggested that we meet.

I remember it was an incredibly hot summer day when I met Jean-Pierre von Baksa in Vienna’s 19th district. I signed a document, a kind of agreement between us. I felt safe as I removed my clothes and completely bared my body.

The floor of the terrace was covered with a vast blanket of black velvet upon which I stretched myself out. The piercing sunlight forced me to close my eyes, and I could feel the heat stored within the black velvet by the sun against my skin.

There I lay, my eyes closed, my arms and legs spread wide.

I dreamed.

I dreamed that I was a bird and that I could fly.

Then I would fly to the man I loved.

Looking back now, I suppose I had the photographs taken only for him… even though he never saw them. I felt that I had lost him—hardly had I found him before I lost him again.

As I drifted through my dreams of flying and being a bird, I could almost feel myself becoming that beautiful creature with a long neck and magical blue feathers. Or perhaps I was an angel.

Whatever or whoever I was, I was happy.

Happy to love the man I had always loved, even though he was not there and I did not know whether I would ever see him again.

I simply continued dreaming with my eyes closed while Jean-Pierre took all those wonderful photographs of me, photographs that reflected those dreams.

When I saw the images, I truly recognized myself as that free bird, soaring away into the distance.

Jean-Pierre subsequently titled the photographic series **“Flying.”**

Exposed Thoughts by Cosima Zanni

Exposed Thoughts by Cosima Zanni (Translated from German by Simone Rauhofer)

A gentle breeze caresses my naked body.

Jean-Pierre is taking the last photographs of the day. It has been a long day. I am cold, and my fatigue makes the work more difficult, yet I continue, hypnotized by his camera and his voice.

“Pull your dress over your head… just like that… perfect…”

He comes closer and helps position the dress correctly so that the rose pattern printed on the black fabric frames my eyes and covers my mouth.

I lower my gaze… *click!*

I look to the side… *click!*

My thoughts drift away… *click… click…*

I follow them… *click… click… click!*

Behind my dress, I feel safe.

I can still remember the day I bought it. It was a very warm spring day in New York City, and I entered an expensive uptown boutique after noticing elegant French lingerie displayed in the shop window.

The dress was, of course, far too expensive for me, but I simply had to try it on.

The fabric glided softly over my breasts like a cascade of fresh rose petals.

The saleswoman smiled at me.

“It was made perfectly for you! Don’t worry about the price—we would be happy to reserve it for you until next week.”

By next week I would already be back in Europe, so I hesitated no longer and bought the dress immediately.

As it was being wrapped, I thought of the man I love, of how his gentle hands would caress me while I wore this dress. I imagined him kissing me as he slowly lifted it.

Perhaps he would photograph me as well.

But my thoughts wandered. He had not photographed me for the past five years and would not do so in the future either.

I had chosen the dress for him.

The thought returned to me as Jean-Pierre photographed me.

The chiffon flows around my waist, below which I am completely naked. Jean-Pierre captures the contours of my face against the backdrop of the rose-patterned dress.

What is truly fascinating about the working method of this wonderful photographer is the way he finds inspiration through the interplay of light and shadow upon the naked body of his model.

His vision connects us for hours through countless clicking sounds.

Hours during which, outwardly, almost nothing seems to happen, while inwardly my rich inner world nearly overflows.

Again I remember that warm spring day in Manhattan when I found my rose-patterned dress, which is now immortalized in photographs.

I receive the first image immediately as an instant print and watch the magnificent play of colors emerge as it develops.

My face is still indistinct and blurred, yet I can see my thoughts with perfect clarity.

Will the people who look at my photograph be able to see my thoughts as well?

Will my thoughts be revealed just as much as my naked body?

Jean-Pierre studies the photograph with satisfaction. He signs it for me with his name.

He gives me the image as a gift to keep.

I thank him, and he thanks me as well.

We continue working hard throughout the rest of the day, and the next photograph turns out even more beautiful.

At his computer, Jean-Pierre adjusts the color tones and prints four versions of my face behind the chiffon dress.

“These are for you,” he says, setting them aside.

I left them behind in his studio at the time, and when I returned on my next visit, they had unfortunately disappeared.

Just like my memory of the emotions that overcame me in that moment.

Jean-Pierre took one final photograph that day, and then our paths diverged.

He left with hundreds of photographs of me, and I carried away a thousand memories of every single one.

If it is truly possible to photograph thoughts, then Jean-Pierre photographed all of mine that day.

Traces on My Skin by Cosima Zanni

Traces on My Skin by Cosima Zanni (Translated from German by Simone Rauhofer)

“You shouldn’t wear underwear before having nude photographs taken—it leaves marks on your skin.”

It was well-intentioned advice from Jean-Pierre, but unfortunately it came too late. The impressions had already been left on my skin, and the camera would mercilessly preserve them for posterity.

The curved underwires of my push-up bra had imprinted themselves beneath my breasts, stretching upward in markings like a spider’s web all the way to my nipples.

As a city girl, I usually went to the office without underwear. I felt it was bad enough having to wear strict, uncomfortable business attire; I certainly did not want to constrict my body even further with undergarments. Besides, it is not easy to scratch your back when squeezed into a tight suit and a bra clasp is pressing into your skin.

Ever since I developed breasts, I have avoided wearing bras and, in general, any kind of underwear that constricts me or irritates my skin. Even the most comfortable French lingerie leaves these unattractive impressions behind.

Almost everything women wear in this age leaves traces on their bodies.

I remember exactly why I wore a bra on that particular day.

Long before the photo shoot, I knew I would be wearing a light, transparent dress, and that I would, for better or worse, have to wear underwear beneath it if I wished to avoid being arrested by the local police for public indecency. Besides, a pair of tight jeans would probably have left far more pronounced marks than a flowing dress.

What I underestimated was the intensity of the impressions left by the bra.

Apparently, there is only one way to arrive at a nude photo shoot without such distracting marks: one must simply arrive naked and have spent the previous night wrapped in silk. Although, even silk scarves probably leave traces—just as shaving one’s legs or underarms, applying an unfamiliar cream, taking a shower that is too hot, or simply sitting with one’s legs crossed.

Our bodies seem to seize upon almost every activity as an opportunity to leave marks upon the skin.

Like a photocopier, the skin displays on its surface everything that comes into contact with it.

I could only truly see the marks on my breasts once I looked at the photographs Jean-Pierre had taken.

Guiltily, I murmured:

“You should have reminded me again. What a shame.”

Jean-Pierre tried to retouch the patterns. He adjusted colors and contrasts until the photographs resembled X-rays of my left breast, yet the unwanted marks remained visible.

What the photographs did not reveal were the marks and impressions left upon my soul—marks twice as deep as those on my skin.

I had allowed a man to carve such profound traces into my heart that no other love could ever erase them.

And yet I longed to wipe away those traces and regain my delicate, virginal heart—a heart that had never been deeply wounded.

If such a heart had ever existed at all, I wished I could exchange it for my injured one.

I comforted myself with the thought that my wounded heart could hardly be visible in a photograph.

The moment I entered Jean-Pierre’s studio, I was proven wrong.

In the photographs, I could see the painful traces upon my heart just as clearly as those upon my body.

The marks on my skin reminded me that photographs had been taken of my body—photographs that revealed my sadness and my pain, emotions I would have preferred to forget.

But would I really have been able to avoid those feelings, even without the bra marks on my skin reminding me of them only an hour before the shoot?

Or would the wounds of my soul have been just as visible as the impressions on my body?

In the images, every imperfection could be seen clearly.

And because of that, they became real.

Blue World by Cosima Zanni

Blue World by Cosima Zanni (Translated from English by Simone Rauhofer)

Jean-Pierre had covered the floor of his terrace with a large piece of black velvet, which made my white body look even paler. I had taken off my clothes and lay down on the velvet, and before closing my eyes, I cast one last glance at the blue sky. I had the feeling that the blue sky was watching me as I stretched my arms toward its blue, lying there naked on black velvet, on Jean-Pierre’s terrace. As I gazed up at the sky, its blue gazed into me and filled me with “blue light.” I can only describe this feeling as “blue light.” This blue light did not simply fall from the sky like rain or drift down gently like snowflakes, nor did it strike me like lightning. Rather, a blue beam of light coalesced into a tornado and penetrated my vagina, filling me completely with blue. When all was blue within me and I had become as blue as the sky, everything else around me had vanished. Jean-Pierre photographed me. The blue color relaxed and calmed me. My body slipped into a blue state where everything seemed to stand still. Apart from the click of a distant camera, I didn’t hear a single sound. The clicking sounds were amplified by the immensity of this blue power. And so I drifted through the blue that enveloped me completely; my thoughts were blue, my breath was blue, my heartbeat was blue, and every cell in my body was blue. I must have fallen asleep, with my eyes closed and my legs and arms spread out, when I no longer even heard the click of the camera. Through half-open eyes, the light of a world I had left behind—a world where my nakedness mattered—penetrated. In the blue ocean of my thoughts, my body had lost its weight while my soul was heavy as lead. Liquid lead flowed from me and merged with the blue around me. When the last drop of my soul had left me, I realized that I had lost the only thing that still belonged to the past. I was now free to fly into the blue and become a part of it.