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Abruzzo’s made Coke??
Didn’t know that Coca-cola was a speciality of Abruzzo…
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The Long Way Up
I’ve always been drawn to stairways — not for their architectural elegance, but for what they suggest about human effort. This photograph, taken in a steep Italian hill town, is less about the stones and more about the person halfway up, leaning forward into the climb, each step a small battle against gravity and fatigue. From a compositional standpoint, I deliberately placed the vanishing point at the top of the stairs, where the light spills in from the open street beyond. The walls on either side act as vertical guides, forcing the viewer’s eye along the incline toward the lone figure. The choice of black and white wasn’t an afterthought;…
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Dreaming of a Lancia Delta Martini…
… while driving a Nissan.
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A Bitter Sweet
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The Power of Music
The story is all in the child’s eyes
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Supporter or Photographer?
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Foto-Grafo featured on Yanidel.net
The (temporarily now) Argentina-based street-photographer Yanick Delaforge kindly published a couple of shots from Foto-Grafo, Quis Custodies and The Last Waltz, in his “Sho(r)t Stories” series.
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Hell Behind — Tiny Holes Reveal the Flames
This image came to life in a place most people would overlook—a weathered metal surface, pitted and worn, pierced by three small holes. From behind, the glow of fire seeps through, each point of red surrounded by the darkness of oxidised steel. It is a minimal scene, but one that brims with quiet menace. The composition is as simple as it gets: three points of light, vertically aligned, slightly imperfect in their spacing. That imperfection matters—it stops the image from feeling sterile and gives it the organic quality of something made by hand, or by time and decay, rather than design. The surrounding textures—the rust speckles, the gradient of heat…
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Seeking Directions
is a complex task, not only on the streets.
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A Kiss In The Shade
I made this photograph late in the afternoon, when the sun was low enough to turn ordinary walls into canvases. Two people leaned in — unaware or unconcerned — and their shadows became the real subject. The kiss itself wasn’t visible, only its echo in light. That absence, the translation of intimacy into silhouette, was what drew me to press the shutter.
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The Bored Bassman
Jazz stages have a way of amplifying not just the music, but the moods of those who inhabit them. This frame, taken mid-performance, says less about the notes being played and more about the space between them. The singer is in her moment, eyes closed, wrapped in the phrasing of a lyric. The bassist, by contrast, rests his chin on his hand — a gesture that could be concentration, fatigue, or simply waiting for his cue. From a compositional point of view, it’s an image split in tone and focus. The spotlighting was harsh, and while it gave the singer’s red dress and skin a luminous presence, it also pushed…
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An inconvenient way to spend time.
Waking up at dawn, layering up like a World Cup slalom contender, waiting your turn at the ski-lift, gliding up to 1,800 metres… and then, instead of carving lines on powder, seeking out the perfect sunny corner to unfold a deckchair and read a magazine. De gustibus, indeed. I took this photograph partly amused, partly curious. The two figures, bundled in ski gear, are frozen in a still life of leisure that feels completely at odds with their surroundings. It’s an unspoken reminder that the mountains aren’t only for the adrenaline-seekers — they’re also for those who see them as a backdrop for a slower kind of pleasure. Technically, the…
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Overexposed?
The scene was candid — two figures, winter jackets zipped to the chin, one holding a small camera at arm’s length, the other patiently posing. The patchwork of snow and rocky ground under a hard midday sun gave me a chance to play with tonal contrast, though it came with its own technical hazards. Snow in bright light loves to trick meters, and the risk here was losing detail in both the highlights and the shadowed areas of the coats. I exposed with the snow in mind, letting the darker parts fall slightly under, trusting that I could lift them later without ruining texture. The clouds, stretched across the frame…
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Rest in peace
after half a day of ski.
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The perfect ski outfit
… which one is best?
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Waiting for the Justice to Arrive
In this hallway of the Tribunale Penale di Roma, time seems suspended. Lawyers sit or stand, briefcases at their feet, bundles of files in hand. Some engage in hushed conversation, others review notes with ritualistic precision. A woman in red draws the eye—a rare burst of colour in an otherwise subdued palette of solemnity. The title, Waiting for the Justice to Arrive, operates on two planes. On the surface, it is procedural. The court has not yet opened its doors; the judge is late, the hearing is postponed. These legal professionals must simply wait—idle, static, alert. Justice, here, is both person and principle: the judge must enter the courtroom for proceedings…
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Chitchat under the rain
every moment is the right one, to enjoy a friendly conversation.
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Under the Yellow Umbrella
It had just stopped raining—just enough to make the pavement shine, but not enough to fold away the umbrellas. I took this photo in passing. No setup, no waiting. Just a quiet moment shared by two people walking slowly, pushing a shopping trolley and carrying a red bag, both tucked under a loud yellow Bardahl-branded umbrella. The kind of umbrella you don’t buy, but are given somewhere and end up using forever. There’s nothing dramatic here. No grand gesture. Just two people—maybe a couple, maybe not—navigating a wet day together. The colours caught me: the dull browns, the muted jackets, that flash of red, and of course the umbrella. It…
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The sentinel…
… hawkeye!
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Bored
… why go to dinner together, just to enjoy a boring night?
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The Last Puff, Before the Kitchen Opens
He leans into the corrugated shutter like it’s the only stable thing in his world. Dressed in pristine whites, but already marked by the day’s fatigue, this cook steals a few quiet moments with his cigarette and his phone. The street is empty, the restaurants still closed, and everything about the frame holds a soft tension—the pause before the fire and oil, the clang of metal, and the heat of service. What struck me first was the geometry. The vertical roll-up doors, the receding line of storefronts, the bricks underfoot—all form a corridor that isolates him visually and narratively. I composed slightly off-centre to echo the disconnection between his world…
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The Alchoolist’s garbage
…
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Lonely cart
… of a potato manic
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None of my business…
Two local police agents try to block an African guy because of the CD he was supposedly selling. But this is none of our business…
