Nestled in the eternal twilight of Rome's Trevi Fountain, where the moonlit waters whisper secrets of ancient lovers and wayward travelers, this evocative series unfurls like a forgotten reel from Fellini's golden age. Captured through the discerning eye of a photographer attuned to the ghosts of glamour, it resurrects the intoxicating spirit of 1950s-60s Italian cinema—think Anita Ekberg stepping into the spray, but reimagined with the fresh-faced poise of an American ingenue named Bee. The fountain itself becomes a co-conspirator in this visual symphony, its baroque extravagance—those frothing tritons, sculpted sea horses rearing from foam, and the central Neptune presiding over it all—serving as a grand, living set that amplifies the mid-century reverie. We leaned into the old Trevi Fountain style, channeling that hazy, honeyed romance of La Dolce Vita, but tempered it with a simplified Vogue sensibility: the kind of pared-down elegance seen in Irving Penn's stark studio portraits or Avedon's street-side candids, where every shadow falls with intention and light dances like cigarette smoke in a dimly lit café. Yet beneath the glossy allure lies a deeper narrative of serendipity and craft—the late-afternoon crowds parting like extras in a scene, the faint echo of Vespas humming in the distance, the chill of marble underfoot grounding the dreamlike haze.