I’m a walker with a compact camera swinging openly from my shoulder - no stealth - collecting the warm negotiations of a tropical city where the body speaks first and loudly. Bodies sprint, stretch, and shimmer along the coast. Here, vanity isn’t sin; it’s choreography. In a country that spends well over three hours a day on social platforms, every shoreline becomes a feed, every ray a filter. The selfie bacame the modern mirror: a public proof of beauty, belonging, and the fragile myth of endless youth. The beauty industry hums behind the scenes, among the world’s largest, oiling this theater of appearance with promise and gloss. Narcissus learned with a pond; Cariocas learn with pixels. Copacabana teaches posture and timing, Ipanema teaches flirtation disguised as exercise. Defined abs negotiate with beer; Shapely legs and bikinis negotiate with gravity - everyone wins for a moment. I keep the lens up, obvious, respectful, ready; the camera is my handshake, while sometimes I feel invisible. My subjects are usually too busy with themselves. After years shooting the deep Brazil, with subjects busy struggling with all kinds of adversities, I currently hunt micro-theaters beside the sea. Click - another love letter to a city that flirts first and asks later. But tell me: are we really free here, or flawlessly cast in the theater of vanity and tropical narcissism?