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Good Manners
… comes from childhood
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The Naughty Customer’s Place
Remember, next be kind with the waiter!
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Pre Colombian Artwork
Not in Mexico, anyway
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Out for a While
… or gone forever?
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Street Compass Rose
There’s something both poetic and ironic about finding a compass rose embedded in the tarmac — a relic of navigation sitting just a few metres from a working fishing port, in an age where most people rely on satellites to find the nearest café. I came across this one early in the morning, when the sun was low and the light had that burnished quality that makes asphalt glisten. The framing here was deliberate: I chose to crouch low, letting the compass rose dominate the foreground, while the fishing boats in the distance anchor the background in place. This low perspective exaggerates the texture of the cracked road surface, contrasting…
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Out-of-Focus
My fault, but – somehow – I find this picture evocative.
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The Audience (Not a Rock Concert, Indeed)
I made this photo during an outdoor performance to begin. What drew me in wasn’t their anticipation, but their fragmentation. Each group was self-contained, bound by conversation, silence, observation, or fatigue. Shot wide, the frame flattens the scene against the warm, textured backdrop of ancient brickwork. The wall itself becomes part of the composition—silent, immovable, almost performative in its presence. Light was fading, diffuse but uneven. I didn’t push the ISO too hard; I let the image soften in the shadows and hold detail in the mids. Skin tones are desaturated but honest. I made no attempt to brighten it into clarity. This is dusk, and it should feel like…
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Lost in mumbling
It was a hot evening, the kind that slows time down. I stood just inside the entrance of a small southern Italian bar, camera slung low, as this scene unfolded naturally in front of me. Two young men, surrounded by the low buzz of a small crowd and the fading daylight, absorbed in their own bubble of silence. One leans into his smartphone with all the weight of someone trying to escape; the other, lost in thought, stares past the counter’s glare. The band in the background plays on, unnoticed. I framed the shot deliberately tight, giving the Ferrarelle fridge full prominence. It anchors the scene in place and era—local,…
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Barbarians at the Gates
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A ghostly bystander
How long was he staying there?
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Wave Riders
I took this photograph on the beach beneath the Ponte del Mare in Pescara. The scene is divided between the monumental line of the bridge and the human scale of two kite surfers preparing their gear. The composition works by contrast: the rigid geometry of steel cables and concrete arcs against the fluid, improvised forms of sport and sand.
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Negrita’s Cover Band
They still need to walk a long, long way before getting in sight of the original Negrita. Nevertheless they have a lot of fun…
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Mirror
Rocco Zifarelli, Jeff Berlin, Beth&Danny Gottlieb, Gabriela Sinagra
Staged?
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Stairway to nothing
It was the kind of place you don’t really notice. A narrow passage, cracked walls, peeling paint, dim light. The kind of corridor you pass through without stopping. Unless you’re carrying a camera—and a little curiosity. I called this frame Stairway to Nothing when I first saw it on the screen. The name came unprompted. It just fit. The stairs are real, but lead to… what, exactly? A dead-end, a blank wall, maybe a half-forgotten door. You get the sense there was once purpose here—function, traffic, even a rhythm. Now it’s just remnants. A railing to hold on to, steps still intact, pots of green fighting back against the concrete. This wasn’t…
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In a yellowtone…
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A true cricket?
Trust me, this is a real photo.
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Rockabilly
Not stylish, not “clean”, not “intellectual”… but damn fun!!
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Parachute
Didn’t have a wider lens, so I got the most interesting part of the frame…
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L’estate sta finendo…
L’estate sta finendo (the Summer is going to end) sang and old tune by The Righeira. It might have been a carefree Italo Disco anthem, but here its title feels almost literal. In this image, the end of summer is measured not in falling leaves, but in the silent rows of yellow sunbeds—upright, slightly askew, ready to be cleaned and stored. The repetition of form is the photograph’s backbone. Eleven chairs (or nearly so—one is cropped out on each side) form a neat yet imperfect line, their bright fabric glowing against the more muted tones of the stone and the soft grey-blue sky. The high-key yellow works almost like an…
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Night Serenade
Is there anything more romantic?
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Come on in…
What will you find at the end of the corridor? The frame pulls you inward. The eye enters through the shadowed foreground, past the blurred figure standing half in, half out of the light, and begins its slow walk down the corridor. The walls, cracked and weathered, carry the patina of time. Arched ceilings recede rhythmically, each arch framing the next, each doorway leading you further inside. Along the path, framed photographs lean against the walls, their colours softened by the dim light. They are not hung with formality; they rest casually, like travellers waiting to be claimed. The projector to the right hints at moving images, yet here, everything feels…
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Seeking Directions – Where Do I Go From Here?
The cyclist wasn’t posing. He’d stopped to make a call, mid-ride, still straddling the saddle with the indecision of someone caught between stages. I didn’t ask. I just raised the camera and took the frame as it unfolded. The gas station in the background plays its part—logo sharp, prices legible, a quiet indicator of place and time. The contrast between high-performance cycling gear and the mundane infrastructure of the city gives the image its friction. It’s not a sports photo. It’s about movement interrupted. Shot handheld in late afternoon with fading light, the exposure was tricky. Highlights bounced off his helmet and the glossy panels of nearby cars. I dialled…
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Nico Cilli Band@Chiostro Comunale – Città S.Angelo
A few shots from a reportage I did during a jazz gig.
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Suspicious
What’s wrong, dude?
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Reminiscenses From The Past
Lost in memories, while the world turns.
