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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…
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Rest under a tree
Resting under a tree, on a sunny afternoon, in springtime.
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What Lasts of Last Summer
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Spumante (Italian Champagne) ready to fuel the party
There is no better way to do it.
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Mind Your Way!
What did grab his attention?
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Guess who’s happier?
Easy, isn’t it? The title “Guess Who’s Happier” finds its answer before you even look twice. In the foreground, a man in a bold red Hawaiian shirt strides into frame, caught mid-motion, mid-laugh. He wears a grey fedora, sunglasses, and the loose, unselfconscious energy of someone untouched by the stiffness of the scene around him. His shirt blooms with white hibiscus prints, a quiet rebellion against the asphalt and glass of the urban backdrop. Behind him, to the right, a man in a dark suit and tie steps forward with a deliberate, guarded pace. His expression is unreadable, but the body language is tight, restrained—functional. The suit, the posture, the context…
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Interior Design at Aurum
Is this couch a piece of art or just a sitting? Two benches, back-to-back, occupy the precise centre of the frame, their symmetry so exact it becomes almost architectural. The polished wooden floor stretches endlessly in all directions, its warm texture rendered in monochrome tones that transform the scene into a study of lines, surfaces, and repetition. The absence of people only sharpens the sense of stillness, making the furniture itself the protagonist. From a compositional standpoint, the central placement works because the subject’s geometry demands order. The verticals of the bench legs and back supports anchor the frame, while the horizontal lines of the seats echo the floor’s pattern.…
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A Dangerous Alley
A parking entrance at night. A dangerous place.
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Too Noisy
A Marching Brass Band rehearsing its performance… maybe too noisy even for daylight time?
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A quiet watchdog or long-time friend who enjoys some rest??
I was walking through a narrow street in Rome when I saw him—stretched across the threshold of a dusty antiques shop like a soft barricade. Head down, ears flat, but not asleep. Not quite. He was watching with the kind of calm that doesn’t need to prove anything. The Leica M9 was set to zone focus, aperture around f/5.6, and I didn’t have time to fuss. I framed, stepped slightly left to catch the reflections in the glass, and took the shot. The light was diffuse—no harsh shadows, just a steady wash of warmth from the tungsten bulbs inside, softened further by the grey sky outside. The exposure held nicely,…
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Life is a bitch
Sunday morning. Scorching sun. A work to be done on time. Life is a bitch.
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What (or Who) Are These Hangs For?
Shot under the sharp midday sun, this image was never meant to soothe. The rope nooses hanging beneath the Egidi bridge in Lazio weren’t installed for dramatic effect—at least, I assume not—but the visual reads like a theatre of unease. Their symmetrical placement across the frame, knotted with intention, stirs something more than curiosity. I took the photo from a boat, drifting slowly beneath the bridge’s concrete weight. The water was still, though not glassy—its murky green caught just enough reflection to add texture. Compositionally, the image divides into thirds almost intuitively: the river below, the ropes suspended in the centre, and the man-made bridge above. The eye bounces between…
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The last flower
The concrete is coming. How long will the last flowers stand?
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Footprints
is it an oil painting, or is it for real?
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Love is like a flower
Love is like a flower, Both need care and attention to grow, Both die if not fed, Both don’t last forever.
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Couples
Two couples in a square. One seeks rest, the other, food.
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When the parking’s lost
When the parking is lost, there’s only one solution.
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Just a soccer match…
This is not an upcoming urban riot. Just a soccer match…
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A Master Luthier in his lab…
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An interesting reading
To seat or no to seat?
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Raus
I took this photograph on a quiet street where the stillness of the scene clashed violently with the venom of the message sprayed across the wall. The phrase, written in crude, hurried strokes, is not a remnant from some distant, darker chapter of history but a fresh reminder that intolerance continues to thrive. The frame is stripped of distraction: a textured wall, a single small window with broken panes, and the shadow of a streetlamp reaching across the surface. The composition leans heavily on the tension between emptiness and statement. Placing the graffiti off-centre allows the cracked window to act as a counterweight, both visually and metaphorically—two forms of damage,…
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The three musket(b)eer
Guess who’s Porthos?
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In the backstage
There’s a kind of quiet tension in the way they lean against the wall. No people in sight. No instruments visible. Just the outlines of music, sleeping inside their forms. As a photographer, that’s the kind of silence you try to listen to. The room was dark, lit only from one side. The light caught the curve of one case and slipped off the edge of the other. Texture came forward. Shape. Memory. You could almost hear the faint creak of clasps, the echo of strings long since gone quiet. Sometimes the most expressive shots come when nothing is happening. No performance, no sound—just the pause in between. These cases…
