Colour
Vivid colour photography showcasing light, detail and atmosphere to capture life’s moments with depth, energy and emotion.
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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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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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The three musket(b)eer
Guess who’s Porthos?
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The Icecream is ready to be served
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A chat on a lake shore
Countless photos like that have been shot. But enjoying a good moment together always deserves to be recorded
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The Mailbox
No News, Good News.
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Fashionable’s shots
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Iron Gate
When craftmanship meets art.
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A relic from the (recent) past
less than twenty years have gone, and a telephone boot looks like a relic from the Stone Age.
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Rest on the lake
enjoying some fruit.
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Waiting for the goal
Why can’t I enjoy my soccer team’s match instead of wasting my time here? Because my wife loves music…
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Segway Chase in Villa Borghese
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What lasts after a party…
Shot the morning after a wet December night, this scene is an unfiltered inventory of what remains once the bodies disperse. Three bottles—two upright, one half-tucked behind an iron gate—stand in for the absent crowd. There’s no music left, no voices, no movement. Just rust, grime, and the fragile persistence of glass. I framed the shot to keep the human presence implied but never visible. The steps lead nowhere, the iron gate is firmly shut, and the graffiti—hastily sprayed in orange—reads only “KR”, ambiguous and unresolved. That felt important. The story here is incomplete by design. It invites conjecture, not clarity. Technically, this is a study in texture. The marble…
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The Hands of a Drummer (Horacio “El Negro” Hernandez)
You don’t photograph a legend. You try not to get in the way. This frame is all rhythm, no fanfare. No face, no spotlight—just hands, sticks, cymbals, and breath held between beats. It’s Horacio “El Negro” Hernández in concert, but not in the way the audience sees him. This is closer. Quieter. The private side of percussion. Shot just beneath the hi-hat, I framed the photo to let the hand speak: fingers curled not in tension, but in dialogue. The skin slightly worn, the grip half-visible—mid-phrase, mid-flow. The cymbals catch the stage light like the faintest of brushstrokes, shimmering but not stealing the scene. You can feel the groove here.…
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Knocking on lion’s door
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Still Together
Still together, like the very first day. I saw them before they saw me — leaning slightly towards each other, their posture neither rigid nor slouched, but comfortably suspended in the shared gravity of the table between them. The wine glasses, half-filled with rosé, spoke of time already spent; the unopened bottle on the side suggested more still to come. From a compositional standpoint, I worked with the geometry of the setting — the square table, the vertical lines of the wall, and the quiet interruption of the stone column — to anchor the frame. The couple sit on opposite sides, yet the line of sight between them is unbroken,…
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The missing guest
This image unfolded quietly, almost too politely — three men in jackets and ties sitting at a table clearly set for four. The elegance of the setup, from the pressed tablecloth to the carefully arranged centrepiece, clashes subtly with the anticipation suspended in their posture. Nobody makes eye contact. One reads the menu, the others look downward, pretending focus. The empty chair becomes the central subject without needing to move. Framing was tight on purpose. I let the olive oil bottle in the foreground stand, blurring into obscurity and giving some depth and texture to an otherwise sharply focused core. That slight intrusion also reinforces the perspective: I wasn’t part…
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Waiting for a Future to Tell
Behind the slightly dusty glass of an old tobacco shop window, a box of tarot cards stands upright, holding its ground with a quiet dignity. The label reads taotl, the colours still vivid despite the years: red flames, green leaves, a central emblem that seems both protective and dangerous. Beneath, the name Masenghini anchors it in a very specific history of Italian card-making, a craft now mostly relegated to collectors and the nostalgic. Around it, other objects share the same slow fate: a light-blue school exercise book titled Quaderno, some patterned boxes, a rolled cylinder of bright turquoise paper. Everyday relics, all bathed in the soft, uneven light that only old glass and time…
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Late-afternoon’s snack
…who knows what will be served for dinner?
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The Worst Moment to Fix a Shoe’s Problem
Caught on a descending escalator, mid-bend, mid-thought—this is the photograph of a decision made too late. Everything in this frame leans forward. The vanishing point pulls you down, hard, like gravity with intention. The blur on the metal steps mimics momentum. You can almost feel the hum of machinery and the silent urgency of descent. At the centre of it all: a man hunched over, trying to wrestle control over something small and unruly—perhaps a loose shoelace, perhaps something more symbolic. I didn’t plan this shot. It happened fast. A reflex. Shot handheld, low light, no time to think, just enough to feel. The imperfection—the motion blur, the noise, the…
