Hasselblad à Luna Sogno: Red Carpet Dreams and Swedish Curves in Hanoi

There are moments in life when one walks not on asphalt, not on parquet, not even on clouds, but on a red carpet. Mine happened not in Cannes, nor in front of a multiplex in Bielefeld, but in Hanoi—yes, the Southeast Asian capital that often feels like a parallel-universe version of Paris, just with more scooters and fewer croissants. It was the opening of my photography exhibition. And I didn’t walk. I glided. With her.

Her name? Luna Sogno.

Nationality? 100% Swedish sex appeal.

Profession? Medium format enchantress.

Model? Hasselblad 500CM.

Turn-ons? Soft light, Kodak Portra, and long exposures.

Turn-offs? Autofocus and commitment.

There I was, clutching Luna like a war hero holding his last remaining cigar. She gleamed. Chrome curves that would make a Leica blush, a waist as boxy as it is unbothered by trends. Together, we were not walking into an exhibition—we were entering history. My history. My very own red carpet moment, rolled out not by gods or gallerists, but by the quiet force of delusion and a local Vietnamese assistant with excellent taste in velvet.

The thing about red carpets: they don’t forgive bad posture. Or doubt. You’re either Agamemnon (hesitant, doomed) or J.Lo in the jungle dress (bravely slit). I opted for a third path: gentleman flâneur with analog credentials. I moved like I was late for a very exclusive espresso tasting, but in the most modest way possible. You know, so modest that everyone noticed.

And yet—I wasn’t alone. I was being watched. Not by critics. Not by collectors. But by Luna, who with her mechanical heart and Carl Zeiss eye, judges only light and form. The ultimate silent influencer.

Let’s be honest: the red carpet has long since detached itself from Olympus and planted itself in the foyer of provincial theatres and budget beauty pageants. But that night in Hanoi, it was all mine. A crimson metaphor under my Adidas Sambas. A rolling symbol of absurd glamour, beckoning me to strut—but not too much. It’s a tricky line: stride like you own the place, but also like you might still ask politely for the Wi-Fi password.

In Hollywood, they prep 4,600 square meters of red carpet with 18 workers over 900 hours. In Hanoi, mine was three meters long and slightly wrinkled, but the symbolism was the same. I didn’t wear sequins or meat. I wore linen. And sweat. And confidence wrapped in irony. I didn’t have stylists, but I had Luna, my Swedish muse, dangling from my hand like a fashion accessory for people who still believe in developing film.

Of course, there was no Joan Rivers yelling “Who are you wearing?” (Answer: Uniqlo, mostly). No Laverne Cox asking for the story behind my outfit. But had she asked, I would’ve simply said:

“I’m telling the story of a man who brought a Swedish camera to Vietnam to shoot French dreams.”

So yes, dear reader, maybe the red carpet has become democratised. Maybe it lies now before every second-rate kiosk and influencer brunch. But that night in Hanoi, under the faint buzz of ceiling fans and the applause of three slightly confused tourists, I was royalty. Luna was my queen. And the red carpet? Just a path toward becoming who you already think you are when no one’s looking.

And if one day I find myself forgotten, I hope some cockroach, slightly confused but undeniably photogenic, scuttles across a beige carpet and channels my energy.

Because everyone deserves a red carpet moment. Even if it’s just in your mind.

Or in a gallery in Hanoi.

With a Swedish box of dreams in your hand.

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