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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…
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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…
