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The Referees
Shot in a break between rounds. Two officials—one in the ring, one just outside—pass the scorecard without a word. The exchange is procedural, yet visually precise. One hand extends up, the other down. The gesture anchors the frame. I placed myself at shoulder height, slightly off centre, to keep the ropes intersecting cleanly across the image. The ring’s horizontal lines break the vertical repetition of the gym’s back wall and audience. Geometry does the work—no crop needed. Lighting was mixed. Industrial overheads with a cold cast, ambient spill from the crowd, spot highlights off the shirts. Monochrome strips it back. No distractions. Just action and structure. ISO 1600 to hold…
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Do Not Touch
The sign was the first thing I saw — handwritten in blue felt-tip, barely taped to the surface: “NON TOCCARE! grazie.”No threat, no fine, just polite instruction. But it said more than warning signs ever could. A gesture of trust. Or desperation. Or both. This old cash register sat alone in the corner of a counter, no longer in use, no longer even fully functional by the look of it. Keys faded, paint chipped, buttons smoothed by time and repetition. It didn’t scream vintage charm — it whispered I’ve seen things. I shot it in available indoor light, pushing the ISO enough to recover the midtones without drowning in noise.…
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Cornermen
There’s a rhythm to these images — a quiet, almost ritualistic interlude in a sport otherwise defined by its violence. The corners of a boxing ring are not just places of rest; they are theatres of strategy, whispered advice, and sometimes silent reproach. In each frame, the fighter is turned inward — literally and figuratively — toward those who bear no gloves but shoulder equal weight in the outcome. From a photographic standpoint, these are intimate studies taken from the same vantage point, the ropes acting as both boundary and compositional anchor. The repetition of the ring’s geometry — horizontal ropes, vertical corner post — frames each scene with a…
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Upcoming Call
A moment inside a café where a man sits alone at a small round table covered with a floral tablecloth. His posture is relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, as he holds a smartphone in his hand and looks toward the large window beside him. The leather jacket and muted colours of his clothing contrast with the warm wooden chairs and patterned fabrics that furnish the interior.
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The Fighter
A tribute to a brave man. Between rounds, the noise shifts. The roar of the crowd blurs into a muffled hum, replaced by the clipped, urgent tones of a voice you trust more than your own instincts—the cornerman. This photograph holds that moment still. The fighter, bare-chested, gloves resting on the ropes, his breathing heavy but measured, absorbs each word. His eyes, narrowed and locked, aren’t simply looking; they are processing, dissecting, committing to memory. Every bead of sweat on his skin is a testament to the round just fought, every vein and muscle carrying the weight of the one to come. The cornerman leans in, body language sharp with…
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Behind The Shaft
Taken from inside one of those old Roman elevators—small, slow, caged in iron. The kind you find tucked into the corner of a 19th-century palazzo, where the wood creaks and everything smells faintly of dust and time. This photo looks outward, through the gate. But in a way, it also looks inward. The gridded metal frame keeps your focus close. The world beyond is blurred just enough to feel distant. Stairs curve down somewhere out of view. The light is natural, soft, diffused. The rest is silence. There’s no action here. No drama. Just the texture of the old ironwork, hand-forged patterns now worn smooth by a hundred years of…
