One evening, two edits

Photographs keep how it looked. The film keeps how it happened — the pause while the box refused to open, the small shake in a voice that had rehearsed all afternoon, the yes said out loud instead of only remembered. Ten years from now the photographs will still hold the light perfectly; only the film will hold the sound of that minute, and the difference between those two kinds of keeping grows with every year that passes.

What arrives afterward is two objects, not one. A teaser made to travel: brief, immediate, for the people who need to see it before their coffee cools. And a full edit made to stay: unhurried, complete, for the two of you and the anniversaries ahead. This page is about those objects — what each contains, how footage this candid gets captured, and what the film costs as an addition to any plan. The person who makes them has a page of their own, and the two are worth reading together.

Briefly, because the how lives elsewhere: nobody performs in these films because nobody knew a camera was working. Coverage happens from distance and disguise — a long lens across the terrace, a second angle from a lower stair — and what matters on this page is what that approach produces: sequences in which the two of you move like yourselves rather than like people being recorded. The engineering of that invisibility, and the person responsible for it, belong to the videographer page; the parallel discipline in stills is on the photographer page, and the proof that neither craft leaves fingerprints is all over the gallery.

A proposal film with the audio missing is a screensaver. What earns the full edit its length is that the question can be heard in it — your actual words at their actual volume, caught by equipment placed for the purpose before either of you arrived. Nothing is re-recorded, dubbed, or subtitled into legibility afterward. If a gust steals a syllable, the edit trusts the picture and lets the syllable go, because a slightly imperfect true recording beats a flawless reconstruction every single time. What you will hear on your tenth anniversary is not a performance of the question. It is the question.

Santorini's airspace has real rules, and the caldera villages sit where flying is most restricted and least welcome; the honest flying map — where aerials are allowed, where they are illegal, where they are merely unkind — lives with the videographer. For the film itself, one sentence covers it: we design the edit around what is legal that evening, never around a shot the rules would delete. Where flying is permitted, most generously over open water, the aerial passes get planned in advance — one reason a yacht proposal yields the genre's widest frames. Where it is not, the film stays at eye level and loses nothing essential, because the yes happens at eye level.

Film is an add-on to any package, and the bands are printed here because surprises belong in the proposal, not on the invoice. Film coverage with an edited teaser runs €450–700. Drone coverage, where permitted, adds €200–350. Movement inside each band is venue and season doing what they always do — a high-summer charter with aerial passes sits near the top, a shoulder-season terrace evening near the bottom — and your figure is confirmed in writing once the setting is chosen, before you commit to anything. After that it does not move.

Delivery follows the same two-object logic. The teaser reaches you first, soon enough that the news is still news when you send it on; the full edit follows at the pace an honest edit takes, and both arrive privately, addressed to nobody but you. Who sees them after that — and every other question about the objects themselves — is answered below.