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Path of Life
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Urgent Calls Only
Shot on a mid-range mirrorless at street level, no setup, no interaction. A man in construction gear walks past a beauty store, phone pressed to his ear. The contrast writes itself—fluorescent orange hoodie and yellow rubber boots set against glass doors advertising discounts on skincare. I waited a half second for alignment. His step mid-stride, body vertical, head turned just enough to define the gesture. The truck on the left anchors the frame, providing visual weight and a break from symmetry. The storefront’s clean geometry contrasts with the rough texture of his work clothes. Compositionally, it’s split in thirds. Truck, figure, door. But the interest lies in the collision of…
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Leica Shop @ Strada Maggiore
The red Leica circle glows against the darkness, a beacon above a shuttered storefront. Below, the metal grate closes the shop to the street, yet faint reflections and hints of light bleed through—an illuminated mask on one side, a small display on the other. The brand’s prestige is reduced to fragments, glimpsed through barriers. Composition is strict and minimal. The glowing round sign sits high in the frame, commanding attention as the only strong colour against black. The shutter’s horizontal lines dominate the lower half, flattening depth and insisting on closure. Within that darkness, however, faint details emerge—faces, objects, light—making the viewer lean closer, as if to pry open the…
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Full Moon
Photographing the moon is a deceptively simple task — at least until you try it. What I wanted was the cold, silvery sharpness of our nearest celestial neighbour, etched against a black void. What I ended up with was something quite different, but not without merit: a moody study of the moon as seen through a gauzy veil of fast-moving clouds. The composition is almost entirely dictated by nature. The moon sits dead-centre, surrounded by concentric ripples of light refracted through water vapour. The clouds swirl and twist in soft greys, catching the pale light and turning it into a painterly texture. In the very heart, there’s a thin halo…
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Mistress Of Puppets
I titled this one Mistress of Puppets. A nod, of course, to the Metallica anthem where the master pulls the strings, controls the fate of others—merciless, mechanical, in charge. But in this frame, the dynamic is flipped. The puppet isn’t controlled. She’s in control. Shot through a shop window, the mannequin doesn’t stand, she sits—curled into herself in an oddly introspective pose. Not a gesture of command, but of knowing. Dressed in soft florals, faceless but not neutral. The glass between us acts like a screen, a membrane, a boundary between worlds—hers synthetic, silent, and oddly powerful; ours fast, distracted, and easily led. Because really, who’s manipulating whom? She doesn’t speak.…
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A Cello Player
This image was taken in the middle of a performance, at the point where the music pulls the musician fully inward. I was close enough to see the grip of his hand on the cello’s neck, the subtle tension in the fingers, the faint sheen of perspiration on his scalp under the stage lights. The head is bowed, almost in communion with the instrument, and the surrounding orchestra falls into a soft blur. I used a shallow depth of field to separate him from the background, letting the warm browns of the cello resonate against the darker suit, while the out-of-focus fellow musicians form nothing more than hints of presence.…
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Intelligence Contest
A pane of glass separates two worlds. On one side, the hyper-stylised gaze of a model — digital, sculpted, aloof. His stare pierces outward from an ad inside a hair salon, promising precision, control, curated masculinity at €21. Behind the glossy veneer, real people go about their routines, dwarfed by the giant printed face that symbolises a synthetic ideal. On the other side, a cluster of balloons—soft, round, unformed—calls out with its own clumsy presence. Unintended perhaps, but visually evocative, the column of latex orbs resembles a puppet or caricature. In their simplicity, they reflect something the model cannot: humanity, imperfection, absurdity. The composition turns into theatre. A confrontation of…
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Play It Again, Sam!
I took this photograph in a small, intimate room where music wasn’t just performed — it was lived. The man seated at the keyboard was deep into a Scarlatti sonata, his hands moving with the assured precision of someone who has played these notes countless times. Standing beside him, another man — perhaps a fellow musician, perhaps a connoisseur — seemed half in conversation, half in silent appreciation, his clasped hands suggesting both restraint and involvement. The space itself lent to the scene: a polished wooden floor, a framed certificate on the wall, bookshelves behind, and the warm light that tends to fill places dedicated to quiet craft. The harpsichord’s…
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The Quest for Belgian Chocolate…
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Outdoor Aperitif
I shot this on a cool evening in Brussels, with the last of the daylight just beginning to retreat behind slate rooftops. The city was shifting gears—post-work fatigue blending with the early stirrings of nocturnal energy. I had the Leica M9 slung across my shoulder, a camera that’s more than a tool—it forces you to see with intent, to commit before pressing the shutter. Paired with the Zeiss Biogon 35mm f/2.8, it draws sharpness out of corners and translates contrast with a crisp, unfussy tone that suited the moment perfectly. The scene was already composed for me: clustered chairs, half-filled glasses, side conversations in mid-stream. No one posed. No one…
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Street Of New York… Possibly
The image was taken in Italy. But remove the signage, blur the language on the air conditioning units, and this could just as easily be Queens or Brooklyn — any back alley where heat pumps hum above cracked asphalt and fading stucco. That universality was the point. Place becomes anonymous when its elements are global. I composed it as a frame within a frame — the corridor of walls leading the eye to the vanishing point, while the pipes, units, and rust act as punctuation marks. The textures do the talking: peeling paint, patched cement, and the industrial clutter that cities never clean up because no one looks down these…
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The Flying Dutchman… a sort of
I made this shot standing at the edge of a small harbour after midnight, the kind of hour where everything becomes abstract unless it’s lit. The boat, isolated and slightly listing, sat in complete stillness, half-moored, half-abandoned. It wasn’t moving, but it didn’t feel settled either. That in-betweenness is what caught my attention. The frame leaned heavily on underexposure—on purpose. I wanted the boat to emerge from the blackness like a memory, not an object. I metered for the faintest highlights and let the rest fall into noise and void. What the image lacks in tonal range, it gains in atmosphere. The blacks are thick, the shadows granular, and the…
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Spectrum
A broken LCD panel, screen blacked out except for vertical bands of coloured light, frozen mid-collapse. I framed the shot in total darkness, using a tripod, low ISO, and long exposure to extract every nuance of the emitted RGB shards. The left stack is dominant—dense, pulsing, lines tightly packed, terminating in a soft arc of failure. The right set echoes it with less mass, more space between columns. Between them, void. The black isn’t absence—it’s the backdrop of digital death. This isn’t a glitch aesthetic. It’s material damage, turned into colour structure. Technically, I shot at ISO 100, f/5.6, 2.5 seconds. Manual focus. White balance locked to daylight to prevent…
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The Temple of Justice
From an elevated perspective, the grand staircase of the Italian Court of Cassation descends in perfect symmetry. Framed by neoclassical columns and lit by reverent lamplight, this space does not merely lead—it ascends, conceptually, toward the divine. The title, The Temple of Justice, is not metaphorical hyperbole, but a statement of function and form. This is not a courthouse. It is a sanctuary. Justice, as the image suggests, is not a secular procedure. It is a liturgy. It unfolds with rituals, vestments, invocation of higher powers, and the solemnity of faith. The robes, the benches, the altars of the law—these mimic the language of churches. And the Court of Cassation, the…
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Kite Surfing, Again
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Waiting for (Supreme) Justice
I took this while waiting, quietly, in Rome’s Corte di Cassazione—a place where silence isn’t just expected, it’s structural. Every arch, bench, and cornice feels designed to mute the outside world. What struck me wasn’t the grandeur (although the sculptural work is unapologetically ornate), but the emptiness. For all the architectural posturing, justice here is often a matter of waiting. The benches, scuffed and rigid, are the only human-scale elements in the frame. They sit below a frieze of muscular allegories and baroque pomp, a reminder of the institutional weight bearing down on the people beneath. The image is composed to reflect this—foreground arch framing the frieze, a horizontal band…
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Ashtray
The scene was quiet, almost too still for such a monumental location. From the balcony of the Court of Cassation, Rome’s ornate facade stretched before me, its stonework carved with faces that have watched over decades of political and judicial tides. And yet, in the foreground, resting on a cracked, timeworn surface, sat a simple glass ashtray. The juxtaposition was almost absurd—this object of everyday habit placed against the backdrop of one of Italy’s most imposing institutions. Framing the shot, I wanted to preserve that contrast. The ashtray dominates the foreground, crisp in focus, while the grand entrance behind it softens into blur. This use of shallow depth of field…
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The Watchdogs
High on a crumbling brick wall, two cats hold their ground. One, a tabby, sits upright, eyes locked on the camera with the unwavering stare of an appointed sentinel. The other, black and white, looks away, uninterested in the act of vigilance, its attention claimed by something out of frame. Behind them, the backdrop tells another story: a weathered industrial wall, its whitewash worn thin, the rusted blades of an old ventilation fan frozen in their casing. Wires run haphazardly across the façade, relics of a building that has seen better days. It’s an unlikely setting for such a scene, yet the pairing of living presence and decaying architecture feels…
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The Relentless Lawyer
Standing in Court, no matter what! Some portraits are taken in the studio, with light sculpted and poses rehearsed. Others, like this one, are captured in the quiet fissures of reality—moments where the weight of a life’s work shows itself unprompted. The old lawyer’s face carries the texture of decades in courtrooms, each wrinkle etched by cross-examinations, verdicts, and long nights parsing the fine print of justice. His robe hangs loosely now, a little heavier than before, as though the fabric has absorbed the gravity of the battles fought. The light, cool and unforgiving, falls across his profile, illuminating both the weariness and the fire that coexist in his expression.…
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Settled in the wrong place
There’s a jolt in seeing something so deeply tied to heat and aridity draped in snow. The prickly pear cactus, its fleshy paddles dusted white, looks almost embarrassed – as if caught wearing the wrong clothes for the season. This is a photograph about displacement, but not in a melodramatic sense; rather, it’s a quiet document of the absurdities nature sometimes hands us. From a compositional standpoint, the image benefits from its layered structure. The cactus dominates the foreground on the left, its irregular shapes and textures pulling the viewer in. Mid-ground, a smaller shrub offers a softer counterpoint, while the horizon – faint and blurred – separates the white…
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Just a Bench (or a Sacrificial Altar?)
When I photographed this bench under a fresh layer of snow, I was struck by its dual identity. On the one hand, it is a piece of public furniture, sculpted concrete shaped into undulating curves to invite rest. On the other, in the starkness of winter light and the thin veneer of frost, it becomes something else—an object that could belong to a ritual, its surface reading like a stone altar abandoned to the elements. The faint streaks of rust along the side even suggest traces of something spilled, though of course it is only iron leaching into the weather. From a technical standpoint, I chose to let the bench…
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Where Are Skilifts Supposed to Be?
I took this photograph on a surreal winter morning when the Adriatic coastline had been transformed into something closer to the Alps than a seaside promenade. The skier, moving steadily away from me, became the anchor for the scene — his posture calm, almost resigned, as though he knew full well there would be no skilifts waiting for him ahead. From a compositional standpoint, I wanted the perspective lines to work hard here. The lamp posts, the pavement edges, even the faint ski tracks converge toward the centre, guiding the eye deeper into the image. The figure is positioned just off-centre, allowing the street to breathe while still holding the…
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Happy New Year
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Don’t They Drink Tea, Instead?
