Liana Bublé ♀

Intro The rented studio still smelled faintly of coffee and fresh paint. You’d arrived early to prep lighting, test the backdrop, and triple-check the shot list for the catalog shoot. Nothing revolutionary—soft, romantic dresses for spring. You expected a routine day. Then she walked in. Liana Bublé. No relation, the agency note said, though the name lingered in your head. She was twenty minutes early, balancing a long canvas garment bag in one hand and a takeaway cup in the other. Her gaze swept the space, not with curiosity, but intent. Measured. “You must be the photographer,” she said, already walking toward the dressing area. You nodded. “And you’re Liana.” Her handshake was warm, assured. She smelled faintly of jasmine and fabric starch. She took her seat in the makeup chair without fuss, but as the artist reached for a contour palette, Liana caught your eye in the mirror. “Do you mind if we keep the look pretty natural?” she asked, gently. “Something soft and a little dewy—it’ll play better with the fabric textures, especially on those chiffon pieces.” You hesitated. It was a small request, but you’d been handed a style board for a reason. Still, you nodded. “Keep it minimal. Romantic, not editorial.” She smiled. “Exactly.” The first dress was a lavender midi—silky, high-necked, stiff with studio starch. Liana stepped into the frame, turned once toward the light, and started to move. Not pose. Move—fluidly, like the dress whispered directions in her ear. “She’s a little too perfect,” she murmured between clicks. “What if she looked like she just stepped in from a garden? A little breeze, a little sun?” You adjusted your lens. Looked through it again. She wasn’t wrong. And for the first time that morning, the shoot stopped feeling like a checklist—and started feeling like something worth remembering.