Daniela Villegas

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Daniela Villegas.

A woman who does not simply move through life, she dismantles it, rearranges it, stitches it back together with golden thread and an insatiable hunger for the unseen. She doesn’t just observe the world; she undoes it, pries open its locked doors, rummages through its hidden compartments, turns it over in her hands like a jewel catching the light at impossible angles. Detail is not just her language; it is an obsession, a gravitational pull, a cipher she was born to decode. Precision is her craft, but curiosity is her fuel, because Daniela is not one to walk a straight path when there are labyrinths to explore, questions to ask, mysteries demanding to be unraveled.

Is she working a job? No. That question is almost laughable. Daniela is living, fully, ferociously, unapologetically. Her work is not something she does; it is something she is. A passion that feeds her, a devotion that burns through her veins. She does not believe in linear timelines, in neat cause-and-effect, in the rigidity of planning, no, she moves like the tide, unpredictable, fluid, dictated only by an invisible rhythm that only she can hear. New projects do not announce themselves; they arrive like whispers in the dark, like storms on the horizon, inevitable, electrifying, waiting for the precise moment to break open and flood her world.

And beyond the work, beyond the artistry, there is fire. Family, her foundation, her gravitational pull. Books, the quiet rebellion of solitude, where she loses herself and finds herself in the same breath. Passion? It is the only way she knows how to exist. A Scorpio in every sense of the word, when something captures her, she does not touch it lightly; she dives, she vanishes into it, she lets it consume her.

Her favorite place? It is not a city, not a destination, it is home. A temple where time slows, where she can step outside the storm and simply be. But there are places that echo in her bones, Chateau Marmont, where memories flicker like old film reels, rich with ghosts of laughter and whispered conversations. The mountains of Sri Lanka, where the world feels infinite and her father’s presence lingers in the wind.

Anatole Heger

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Daniela Villegas.

A woman who does not simply move through life, she dismantles it, rearranges it, stitches it back together with golden thread and an insatiable hunger for the unseen. She doesn’t just observe the world; she undoes it, pries open its locked doors, rummages through its hidden compartments, turns it over in her hands like a jewel catching the light at impossible angles. Detail is not just her language; it is an obsession, a gravitational pull, a cipher she was born to decode. Precision is her craft, but curiosity is her fuel, because Daniela is not one to walk a straight path when there are labyrinths to explore, questions to ask, mysteries demanding to be unraveled.

Is she working a job? No. That question is almost laughable. Daniela is living, fully, ferociously, unapologetically. Her work is not something she does; it is something she is. A passion that feeds her, a devotion that burns through her veins. She does not believe in linear timelines, in neat cause-and-effect, in the rigidity of planning, no, she moves like the tide, unpredictable, fluid, dictated only by an invisible rhythm that only she can hear. New projects do not announce themselves; they arrive like whispers in the dark, like storms on the horizon, inevitable, electrifying, waiting for the precise moment to break open and flood her world.

And beyond the work, beyond the artistry, there is fire. Family, her foundation, her gravitational pull. Books, the quiet rebellion of solitude, where she loses herself and finds herself in the same breath. Passion? It is the only way she knows how to exist. A Scorpio in every sense of the word, when something captures her, she does not touch it lightly; she dives, she vanishes into it, she lets it consume her.

Her favorite place? It is not a city, not a destination, it is home. A temple where time slows, where she can step outside the storm and simply be. But there are places that echo in her bones, Chateau Marmont, where memories flicker like old film reels, rich with ghosts of laughter and whispered conversations. The mountains of Sri Lanka, where the world feels infinite and her father’s presence lingers in the wind.

Kate Butler

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Kate Butler. An actress, a storyteller, a seeker of beauty in its most elusive forms, Kate moves through the world not merely to exist but to devour, absorb, transform. Creativity is not just her craft; it is the rhythm of her being, the undercurrent pulling her toward every untold story, every unwritten page, every performance waiting to be inhabited.

Her world is a constellation of art, where home décor, fashion, and fine art don’t just coexist but collide, merge, and reshape themselves into something entirely new. Museums electrify her, galleries whisper to her, the pulse of live music sends her hurtling forward, as if missing a concert would mean missing a moment of the universe unfolding. Recently, she completed The JonBenét Ramsey Story, a haunting limited series for Paramount+, and her short film The End, directed by Aisha Schliessler, earned a nomination for Best Narrative Short at the Los Angeles Film Festival. And then, there’s Bridge to Terabithia, 30 Days of Night, past performances etched into memory, a reel of characters she has embodied, discarded, and carried with her all at once. But Kate is never static; even now, there are new projects, quiet, unfolding, waiting to be revealed.

Italy, its sun-drenched ruins, its echoes of history, its languid afternoons stretching into evenings of wine, conversation, and laughter, is where she feels most herself. Maybe it’s in her blood, a whisper from generations past, or maybe it’s simply the unshakable truth that beauty is best when shared, when savored, when stretched into infinity through the stories we tell each other.

And the stories aren’t done yet. Not for Kate. Not for the world waiting to see what she does next

Bennu Gerede

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Bennu Gerede. A woman who does not walk through life, she storms, she surges, she radiates. A photographer, a storyteller, a force. To call her unconventional would be an understatement; to call her fearless would be redundant. She is ungovernable, untethered to expectation, a spirit that refuses to be confined.

Her bloodline carries the weight of history, Hüsrev Gerede, ambassador, right hand of Atatürk, a name etched into the streets of Istanbul itself. A legacy of power, diplomacy, revolution. But Bennu? Bennu does not live in history’s shadow. She bends history to her will, remakes it, reinvents it. The streets may bear her grandfather’s name, but the world is imprinted with her energy, fierce, unwavering, wild.

She sees through the lens, but she does not capture, she devours, she consumes, she absorbs light and throws it back into the world in sharp, breathless flashes. Her photographs are not just images, they are confrontations, moments seized and stripped bare. She does not ask permission. She never has.

Scandal? She wears it like armor. Judgment? She has outpaced it. Mother of four kings, she has built, she has burned, she has endured. She has been adored, she has been condemned, she has been mythologized, but she has never been broken. She has shed tears, joy, blood, sweat, yet she always stands.

She does not travel, she disappears, dissolves, embeds herself in the pulse of a place. Never a tourist, never an outsider. Malibu, Bali, Paris, Istanbul,New York wherever she goes, she belongs and yet never stays. She is in motion, always. She is sun, light that blinds and warms in equal measure.

Camilla Trigano

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Camilla Trigano. A city dweller with a country soul, Camilla carries nature within her, whether in the flowers she notices on her morning walks or the tomatoes she picks from her front yard. Her days begin with a ritual of tea and classical music, a moment of stillness before stepping into the rhythm of Los Angeles.

For Camilla, dreams and reality are one and the same. The sudden loss of a close mentor reshaped her perspective, there is no waiting, no postponing. Life is now. As a marketing director with a deep involvement in artistic direction and design, her creative process reflects this philosophy: projects flow into each other with no clear start or end, just a constant evolution of form, vision, and function.

Outside of work, she finds solace in movement and creation. Riding horses, a lifelong passion, is her therapy, while cooking is an expression of care, an act of love shared with those around her. Though rooted in Los Angeles, her heart belongs to many places: the southwest of France, an island in Belize, and a quiet village near Pondicherry, each offering her a sense of freedom, belonging, and simplicity.

Marjorie Rice

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Marjorie Rice. A whirlwind, a spark, a gravitational pull , Marjorie is the kind of woman who makes life feel bigger, louder, more alive. She exists in a million places at once, somehow effortlessly balancing family, friendships, and an insatiable love for gathering people under one roof. She doesn’t just host; she orchestrates, curating moments with an instinctive ease that makes you wonder if she was born throwing parties.

Her home? Hollywod Hill, a pocket of Hollywood history perched beneath the legendary sign, where the ghosts of old cinema still linger in the walls. Her neighbor once upon a time? Charlie Chaplin. Of course. Because nothing about Marjorie is ordinary. This isn’t the Sunset Boulevard of velvet ropes and flashing lights; Temple Hill is quieter, sharper, where thinkers and artists retreat when the city becomes too loud. And yet, in her hands, it’s never still.

Our first encounter with her was nothing short of cinematic. She barely knew us, yet without hesitation, she handed over the keys to her house for an event , no questions, no hesitation, just pure instinctual generosity. And then, just as effortlessly, she took it a step further: a caterer, a perfectly set table, an atmosphere that felt less like a favor and more like an occasion. This is who she is. A woman who makes more out of every moment.

There’s something distinctly Mediterranean in her way of being , this boundless, instinctive need to nurture, to make sure every guest has the best of everything, to create an experience that lingers long after the night has ended. Next stop, Ojai, where Marjorie spends her weekends in this charming coastal community north of San Diego, considered to be the mecca of wellness and wonder acting as a magnet for philosophers, artists and those who prefer to stay out of the limelight.

Alex Dawson

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Alex Dawson. A sculptor of space, a weaver of breath, a conduit of unseen currents. She does not simply teach yoga; she maps the body’s silent negotiations, the places where tension lingers like unspoken words. Every inhale, an invocation. Every exhale, a release. Her retreats are not escapes but rituals, portals to something deeper, something ancient, something that calls the soul home. But Alex does not merely move. Movement is ephemeral. Alex imprints. Breathwork, sound, stillness, her instruments, her language, her tools of transmutation. She teaches not for mastery, but for liberation, for the exquisite unraveling of what we think we are into what we have always been. Her path was never linear, it was a dance, a reckoning. Once an actor, shaping stories with borrowed voices, she found her own in teaching. Yoga did not replace acting; it redefined it. Every class a symphony, every retreat a pilgrimage. She does not cling to identities. She allows them to shift, dissolve, evolve. And evolve she does. The 21-Day Yoga Body Cleanse, an odyssey through the chakras, a journey of detoxification, not just of the body, but of the spirit. And then, Sacred Peaks. A retreat in the Dolomites, where silence holds its own wisdom. It filled in two days, not because it was marketed, but because it was needed. Still, she does not stop. She expands. She creates. She breathes. The next cleanse, the next invitation, the next unfolding. Because transformation does not belong to one place, one time, one body. It belongs to those willing to listen, to themselves, to the spaces in between, to something greater. And at the center of it all, Rumi. Not just a dog, but a teacher. A reminder that life is meant to be lived fully, nose to the wind, heart wide open, rooted in the now.

Owen Cheung

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Owen Cheung. A maker, a builder, a collector, not just of objects, but of obsessions, of histories, of intricate fascinations that shift and evolve like clockwork mechanisms clicking into place. There is no half-measure with Owen. When something captures him, it is total immersion, a plunge into the depths where knowledge becomes artifact, where every passing passion leaves a tangible imprint. One day, it’s the precise gears and levers of an automaton, the next, the quiet hum of a perfectly restored kissaten in Japan. And just when mastery nears? The process resets, the next fixation on the horizon, waiting to be unraveled. Work, for many, is confinement. For Owen, it is structure, an essential rhythm to balance the gravitational pull of curiosity. Absolute freedom would be too vast, too unshaped. Routine gives focus, allows the mind to oscillate between discipline and discovery. And the job itself? A dream to most, a reality to Owen, one that fuels his creative hunger, keeps his hands and mind moving, keeps the cycle of learning endlessly turning. Right now? He is resurrecting an automaton for an exhibition, coaxing life from brass and steel, from mechanisms long forgotten. And always, there is his house, a living thing, never finished, never settled, a project that grows and shifts alongside him, absorbing every new obsession, every new inspiration. Beyond the craft, there is travel, of course. Japan, but not the neon-drenched spectacle that others seek. Instead, the tucked-away relics of the Showa era, the dim-lit kissaten where time stretches, where stories are poured slowly, one cup at a time. A pilgrimage not just for place, but for feeling, for the weight of the past resting quietly in the present. And then, there is Venice. Impossibly real, impossibly fragile, a city built where no city should exist. The birthplace of Carlo Scarpa, where form and function exist in perfect tension, where architecture bends time itself. A place of memory, of love, of personal history. And just a breath behind, Menorca, another space etched in nostalgia, another shore calling him back.

Natalie Von Der Burg

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Natalie Von Der Burg. A force, a spark, an orchestrator of spectacle, she moves fast, thinks faster, always one step ahead of the story before it even knows it's being told. Outgoing? That doesn’t quite capture it. Independent? That’s an understatement. Fiercely loyal? More like unshakable. There is no halfway with Natalie. You are either in her world, orbiting at her velocity, or you are standing still, watching the streak of light she leaves behind.

Her craft? Not just creation, construction, deconstruction, reinvention. Television, film, music, she doesn’t just work in these worlds; she bends them, molds them, stitches them together with a producer’s precision and an artist’s instinct. Promos, marketing, music videos, each project a different beast, each deadline a new battlefield, each client a new puzzle to solve. Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, Die With A Smile. Poker Face Season 2, Natasha Lyonne. Names that echo, visuals that burn into memory. Natalie stands at the helm, the unseen architect behind the spectacle, the rhythm-maker of moments that linger long after the screen goes dark.

But if you think she’s just about the art, think again. Politics is where her pulse quickens, where her fire burns brightest. She doesn’t believe in passive existence, she believes in engagement, in agency, in grabbing hold of the mechanisms of power and demanding more. She teaches, she ignites, she refuses to let people drown in apathy. She is the wake-up call, the voice cutting through the noise, reminding people that their vote is a weapon, that their participation is not optional, that silence is a form of surrender she will never accept.

And yet, for all the movement, all the momentum, she has her sanctuary. Her true favorite place? Not a city, not a set, not a studio. It is anywhere she can breathe in sync with the two people who matter most, her husband, her sister. Because in all the chaos, in all the adrenaline, there is an unshakable truth: Natalie Von Der Burg is built on love just as much as she is built on fire.

Daniele King

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Daniele King. A creative director, a birth doula, and an unwavering advocate for artistic communion, Daniele moves through life with an open heart and an instinct for connection. Whether she is curating spaces in fashion and film or guiding new life into the world, her work is a testament to the power of creation in all its forms.

In Los Angeles, Daniele’s world orbits around a cliffside sanctuary, a home-turned-commune where art, food, and friendship blend seamlessly. Here, among the ocean views and open skies, creativity is not an isolated act but a collective rhythm. Friends gather, ideas flourish, and nights stretch into mornings in a space where expression is boundless.

Her vision extends beyond physical spaces and into storytelling itself. Recently, Daniele worked on a film project, one that, much like her life, was rooted in human connection. For her, film is not just about images but about the feeling they evoke, the silent narratives they carry. The process was immersive, collaborative, electric, each frame shaped with the same intuitive precision that defines all her work. To direct, to create, is to curate an experience, much like the spaces she builds and the lives she nurtures.

If given the gift of time, she would spend three months in Mallorca, a place that calls to her like a distant echo of home. Its rugged coastline, its sailboats drifting over deep blue waters, there, she finds reflections of California, a familiarity wrapped in the foreign.

For Daniele, handmade is not just a practice but a language, a way of preserving the stories of those who came before. Each stitch, each brushstroke, each carved piece of wood carries history, a thread binding generations. Without it, the world would feel hollow, stripped of its depth and meaning.

Above all, she is a mother, in every sense of the word. She creates, she nurtures, she brings newness into the world, whether through birth, through art, or through the simple, sacred act of gathering people together.

Celia De Flers

We at Kilometre Paris would like to present our muse: Celia de Flers. A decoder of the unseen, an alchemist of the ineffable, a traveler between dimensions of knowing. She does not merely read irises; she extracts stories from them, tracing the fine filaments of color and shadow like an archaeologist of the body’s deepest truths. Every organ, every emotion, every wound, written there in the shifting constellations of the eye, waiting to be unraveled.

But Celia does not stop at seeing. Seeing is passive. Celia transmutes. Nutrition is not just fuel; it is medicine, coded in ancient wisdom and modern science. Energy is not just something you feel; it is a current she can redirect, an ocean she can calm, a fire she can reignite. She does not separate the physical from the spiritual because, in her world, they have never been apart. Mind, body, spirit, one pulse, one rhythm, one grand choreography of existence.

And then, the jewelry. To call them accessories would be sacrilege. These are artifacts of intention, vibrations molded into gold and silver, sigils of strength and devotion, charged with something beyond mere aesthetics. Some pieces whisper. Others command. Every design a message, every curve a talisman, every shimmer a bridge between the tangible and the divine.

Her work? No. This is not work. This is a calling, a compulsion, an unraveling of the ordinary into something luminous and extraordinary. A reading of the unseen patterns woven through time, a whisper from the universe made legible through her hands.

And still, she evolves. She does not settle, does not linger in the comfort of mastery. Quantum Medicine beckons, where atoms and intention collide, where the body’s electromagnetic field speaks a language that she is learning to translate. Science bends to the mysteries she has always understood intuitively. She steps toward it, not with hesitation, but with the hunger of someone who has always known there was more.

She belongs to no single place, no single tradition, no single moment in time. Indonesia is ritual and reverence, where spirit moves as thick as the air itself. Japan is precision and poetry, where stillness holds entire worlds. But Celia, Celia is all places, all energies, all stories at once. She does not just exist; she radiates, she shifts, she expands.