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Red Storm
I took this photo without raising the camera to my eye, resting it against the back of a chair to avoid breaking the rhythm of the scene. The room was full — women mostly, all dressed for the occasion, voices layered like overlapping melodies, echoing off red tablecloths and gold-framed mirrors. At the centre of it, this woman in a storm of colour. Her jumper caught the light — green, crimson, black — like a weather system of yarn. I didn’t need to see her face. Her hand told the story. The composition is crowded, intentionally so. No negative space, no clean lines, just immersion. You’re pulled into the middle…
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The Elders’ Council
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Urban Scavenger
I photographed this scene late at night, drawn by the way a single pool of light exposed the fragments of urban life that usually go unnoticed. The gull was feeding on scraps by the kerb, a plastic cup discarded nearby, while traffic and people passed outside the frame. What emerged was a study of survival in the margins of the city, where wildlife and waste collide under sodium lamps. Compositionally, the image hinges on that triangle of illumination falling across the pavement. The lit area acts almost like a stage, isolating the bird against the darker periphery. I placed the gull slightly off-centre, letting the curved kerb and the lines…
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The Restorer’s Nest
Bringing back to life what was nearly lost
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A Quiet Evening
… in the heart of Rome, an old trattoria let people enjoy a quiet diner.
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Behind the News
He stands in full sun, blazer buttoned, shirt crisp, mic in hand — delivering his segment with composure. It’s a classic image: the field reporter, live from the square, holding the line between chaos and clarity. But move the lens just a little wider, and the story changes. Because behind the camera, a different truth unfolds. The cameraman, sleeves rolled up, and the tourists slouched in the shade — legs stretched, sandals kicked off, hair tied up in the heat. They’re close enough to hear the words but completely removed from the illusion. And that’s the beauty of it: two realities, divided by a lens, staged in the same space.…
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The Sailor
Hey, there’s no water straight there!
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Trento, After Dark
There’s a plaque on the wall behind them—honouring soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, fallen in a war a hundred years gone. But they’re not looking at that. Instead, three boys sit shoulder to shoulder on a wooden bench, huddled around a glowing Apple logo. A little too bright for the square. The light falls on their faces the way a fire once would have. They’re focused, not speaking much. Two watch the screen; one taps at his phone. Nobody’s in a rush. This is Trento at night: limestone façades, uneven cobbles, Mediterranean shrubs in planters, and now Wi-Fi in the air. The square is mostly empty. Just a few benches,…
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What lasts of a springtime hailstorm
The street was still echoing with the last low rumbles of thunder, and people had not yet come out of their doorways. The hailstones had gathered along the edge of the pavement, forming an accidental border where road meets kerb. They hadn’t yet begun to melt, and their translucency caught the ambient light in a way that made them seem brighter than the grey afternoon deserved. What interested me first was the contrast in scale and material—hard pellets of ice scattered among leaves that had been torn down in the wind. The leaves are not decorative; they are casualties of the weather, sudden and unplanned. Their colour breaks the monochrome…
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Restaurant or Hellgate?
I took this frame in passing — late, tired, camera already packed away, then unpacked again. The corridor drew me in. Or rather, the light did. That deep red glow — not warm, not inviting, but saturated and theatrical — pooling like blood on the chequered floor. At the end of the tunnel: a door, closed, with a neon sign above it that read “Ristorante.” The most ordinary word, rendered as a challenge. This isn’t a photo of a restaurant. It’s a photo of a threshold. Of ambiguity. Maybe of dread. The darkness at the sides, broken only by the faint reflections in glass and stone, keeps the eye centred.…
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Nightlife
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Alone, Together…
Are they friends, or do they just share the table?
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Hanging News
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Coffee Doesn’t Need a Table. It Needs a Moment
I didn’t need to wait for this shot to compose itself—it already had. The empty espresso cup, still fresh with crema residue, sat on the curve of the car roof like it belonged there. No fuss, no coaster, just placed with the kind of instinct that only comes from repetition. Mechanics don’t schedule coffee breaks. They take them where they stand. The car’s soft metallic paint reflected just enough light to form a clean, curved foreground. I used a wide aperture to isolate the cup, letting the background—raised vehicles, industrial stairs, soft chaos—bleed into blur. The contrast between the sharp plastic rim and the defocused scene behind it is where…
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A Mini At The Garage
In motorsport, the story is often told on the track—in the blur of speed, the roar of engines, the chase of the apex. But there is another narrative, quieter and equally vital, found in the moments before a car is ready to move again. This photograph of an old Mini Cooper captures that in-between state: the stillness of a machine awaiting service. The perspective is deliberate. We see the car from the rear, centred on the whip antenna and the roofline, framed by the muted geometry of the workshop. Reflections curve across the back glass, warping the ceiling lights into soft arcs—a reminder of the interplay between machine and environment.…
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Who wants to live forever?
I found this sign in a narrow alley in southern Italy, somewhere between a forgotten tabaccheria and a shuttered photo lab. The kind of place where time no longer hurries. “Kodak films in vendita qui” it proclaims—still, stubbornly, as if refusing to accept the world has moved on. The once-bold red letters are now softened by decades of sun, rain, and indifference. The plastic casings holding each letter—cracked, leaning, imperfect—speak more truth than any marketing slogan ever could. It’s a ghost sign, still selling hope in an age when its promise has nearly vanished. This isn’t just a relic of analogue photography—it’s a whisper of what we thought would last…
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Trick or Treat?
Trick or Treat. Smell my feet. Give me something good to eat.
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The Spinners
I want to ride my bycicle…
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The Pizza’s Journey
From the oven to the the bench…
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As Time Goes By
Lost in thought, as time goes by…
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Rocco Zifarelli, Jeff Berlin, Beth&Danny Gottlieb, Gabriela Sinagra
These frames—made on a Leica M9 with an Elmarit 90/2.8—form a compact essay in concert reportage the labour of musicianship. The 90mm perspective is decisive here. It compresses the space, trims away the audience and the room, and turns performance into a sequence of concentrated gestures: hands, shoulders, the angle of a head, the moment a player listens as much as they play.
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Kime in Photography
While I was setting the aperture and the focus zone to shoot from the hip the subjects shifted the position of their heads and I missed the shot. Lesson learned: I decided to take this picture too late. I was aware of the composition a good ten seconds before, but I idled in uncertainty. When I finally resolved myself to shoot, I did everything on a hurry a I missed the shot. I definitely need to develop Kime in photography.
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The Photo I Didn’t Shoot
Every amateur photographer (and maybe a few professionals) has a shot he chose not to fire. In my case it is a brutal knock-out on a Mixed Martial Arts match. As official photographer of the event I was allowed to wander around the venue with no restriction (but jumping on the ring). During the second round I sensed that something was going to happen: the fighters started trading heavy punches at close distance and the temperature of the match raised suddenly hot. The crowd went mad, inciting the two men to hit harder and harder. All of a sudden, a hook at the jaw shut down the light of one…
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Red Tears
I’ve always been drawn to the small, almost accidental pieces of abstraction that appear in everyday life. This photograph began as nothing more than a patch of painted wall, but the way the red pigment bled into the pale blue beneath was too evocative to ignore. The streaks felt like gravity-made brushstrokes, each drip tracing its own irregular path — a literal record of time and viscosity — and yet, when taken in as a whole, they resembled something far more visceral. Hence the title. Compositionally, I chose a tight, horizontal crop to emphasise the division of the frame into two bold blocks of colour. The hard upper edge of…
