Steve & ZhenyaJanuary 2026

Kakheti does the work itself: rows of vines on wooden stakes, long light and a marani where wine ripens in buried qvevri. The job was not to decorate it, but to stay out of its way.

The day begins hot and wide open. Zhenya came out to her friends in the garden: chocolate dresses, white paper parasols on wooden ribs. They were taken against the sun, but from below, against the sky, they hold a frame better than any prop.

We kept the first look for the winery gates: a brick wall, a grey arch running almost its full height, stone paving underfoot. Midday, a hard shadow, the train dragging over the stone. There was no one there but the two of them.

The ceremony was set straight in the field — no arch, no canopy. A white platform on the grass, honey-coloured wooden plinths, ceramics: jugs, squat vessels, one of them laid on its side. The flowers were built from powdery anthurium, callas, stock, narcissi and branches in blossom. Behind them, rows of vines, then green slopes and snow on the far ridge. The vows were read from cards, in turn. Steve put the ring on under the flowering branches.

After the ceremony they went into the vines. The shoots here are still low, the earth between the rows dark and loose, the satin dragging right across it — no one picked the train up.

The evening began by the terrace: guests with glasses, a projection thrown onto a pale wall — wine-side vibes only — and the letters landed on their shoulders. The last frames were made at sunset, when the light had faded out to white: Steve laughing with his head thrown back, Zhenya looking into the camera over his shoulder.