Vladislav & AnastasiaJuly 2026

It started with the tree. A lone oak on the edge of a hill, mown hay in rows, a valley below and a pale strip of water. A place like that needs nothing competing with it, so there was almost no decor: a few white panels thrown over the branches and a low armful of white flowers and greenery at the roots.

Hanging those panels took longer than the ceremony itself. Tie, pull tight, take down, hang again — ten times over, until the fabric started to fly the way it had to. None of that fuss shows in the finished frames: the cloth looks as if it grew on the oak by itself.

The looks were built for the same thing. A dress with bare shoulders and full sleeves, a string of pearls, a lace veil from crown to ground — in the wind it behaves exactly like the panels. On him a white shirt with rolled sleeves and light trousers, no jacket, no tie. The bouquet is small: pink, white, blue, as if gathered on the way up the hill.

The ceremony was held straight on the grass, with no arch and no chairs. A figure in black with the text on a stiff card was the only dark patch among all the white. The panels kept lifting and blocking the view — you had to wait for the wind to let them go. Then he put his arms around her, and the cloth closed over the two of them.

After that they went off alone. A path through dry grass above the knee, a stone walk, old fortress walls, and by evening an even white light with no shadows. The wind lifted the veil again, a petal hung in the air. By the oak he picked her up and spun her, and the skirt went round.