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Have fun…
This is the mood music should always create… (so long, jazz players)
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Lorenzo negli stadi
Rockol.it – a music-oriented online magazine I work with – published the reportage I did at the Jovanotti’s “Lorenzo negli stadi tour 2013” in Pescara (IT). Here are the other pictures.
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The SoundMaster
You don’t usually see them—not really. They’re always there, but never in the spotlight. Still, without them, there wouldn’t be a show. I was at a concert recently, camera in hand, doing what I normally do—trying to catch something a little off-stage, something that tells the rest of the story. That’s when I spotted him: back to the crowd, eyes on the board, headphones hanging loose around his neck. Focused, steady. Doing the kind of work that only gets noticed when something goes wrong. I framed the shot from behind. The lights of the soundboard, all blinking and glowing, lit up the edges of his shirt—a simple icon of a…
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The Smoker’s Golden Rule: A Coffee Always Calls a Cigarette
There is something about certain rituals that photography seems almost predestined to document — moments that are less about the act itself and more about the pause in which it occurs. This image sits firmly in that territory. From a compositional perspective, the frame is constructed to let the viewer’s eye drift from one key element to another: the coffee cup, the ashtray, the faint tendrils of smoke, and perhaps even the hinted presence of the smoker just outside of view. The narrative is implicit; we know what is happening without needing to see it. This is the strength of suggestive framing — it trusts the audience to fill in…
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The Lost Garage
A hidden spot, where nobody goes, while everybody passes by.
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Diner After the Show
Thank god there’s still a way to get some food, even at late night…
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Three of a Kind
Shot from street level, this image captures an everyday theatre performed quietly on a terrace. Three people — two women and one man — are held together by proximity but separated by gesture, expression, and posture. It’s a fleeting constellation of personalities, caught just before it disperses. I was struck by the triangular tension: the woman on the left, sporting a bicycle helmet and pursed lips, locked in on the man’s casual delivery. He stands as the pivot, mid-sentence, while the third figure leans away, hand on neck, visibly disengaged. The emotional distance between them expands far beyond the physical. Technically, the image relies on a crisp focus and compressed…
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Evolution of a Guitar Player
It’s strange how a decade can pass in the blink of an eye — and yet carry with it the weight of evolution. The last time I met Roberto Di Virgilio, he had a Steinberger in his hands: all sharp edges, carbon fibre, and the aura of the 1980s futurism that guitarists either loved or dismissed outright. Seeing him now, a Les Paul slung across his shoulder, feels almost like a chapter shift in a novel I didn’t realise I was still reading. The photograph was taken in the kind of setting that usually conspires against the photographer: a stage during setup, flat midday light filtered through the structure above,…
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The Calm Newsreader
Piazza del Duomo is never truly still. The stone expanse acts as both stage and thoroughfare, where the pace of life is measured in contrasts. In this pair of images, that tension is laid bare: a young woman, mid-stride, the blur of her step almost audible, shares the same visual field as a man in a red shirt who sits in unhurried contemplation, newspaper in hand. The composition in the first frame benefits from the deliberate use of foreground and background separation. The woman is caught in that decisive moment—foot lifted, eyes focused ahead—while the man remains anchored in his position, reading. The interplay between their postures tells a story…
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A Lost Towel
No one around. Just sun, sand, and something left behind. The beach was empty when I passed through—early or late, hard to say—but this towel was there, alone, crumpled and vivid. Its colours refused to blend in: yellows, reds, a printed image of something once meaningful, now half-folded by the wind. It didn’t look forgotten. It looked abandoned. What caught my eye more than the towel was what surrounded it: tyre marks, footprints, all criss-crossing paths layered into the sand. As if everyone passed by but no one stopped. It felt recent, but not urgent—like whoever left it didn’t mean to come back. The shot came together quickly. Low angle…
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Everything is ready for the service
… but the attendees
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The Smoke Teacher
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Red Storm
I took this photo without raising the camera to my eye, resting it against the back of a chair to avoid breaking the rhythm of the scene. The room was full — women mostly, all dressed for the occasion, voices layered like overlapping melodies, echoing off red tablecloths and gold-framed mirrors. At the centre of it, this woman in a storm of colour. Her jumper caught the light — green, crimson, black — like a weather system of yarn. I didn’t need to see her face. Her hand told the story. The composition is crowded, intentionally so. No negative space, no clean lines, just immersion. You’re pulled into the middle…
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The Elders’ Council
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Urban Scavenger
I photographed this scene late at night, drawn by the way a single pool of light exposed the fragments of urban life that usually go unnoticed. The gull was feeding on scraps by the kerb, a plastic cup discarded nearby, while traffic and people passed outside the frame. What emerged was a study of survival in the margins of the city, where wildlife and waste collide under sodium lamps. Compositionally, the image hinges on that triangle of illumination falling across the pavement. The lit area acts almost like a stage, isolating the bird against the darker periphery. I placed the gull slightly off-centre, letting the curved kerb and the lines…
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The Restorer’s Nest
Bringing back to life what was nearly lost
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A Quiet Evening
… in the heart of Rome, an old trattoria let people enjoy a quiet diner.
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Behind the News
He stands in full sun, blazer buttoned, shirt crisp, mic in hand — delivering his segment with composure. It’s a classic image: the field reporter, live from the square, holding the line between chaos and clarity. But move the lens just a little wider, and the story changes. Because behind the camera, a different truth unfolds. The cameraman, sleeves rolled up, and the tourists slouched in the shade — legs stretched, sandals kicked off, hair tied up in the heat. They’re close enough to hear the words but completely removed from the illusion. And that’s the beauty of it: two realities, divided by a lens, staged in the same space.…
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The Sailor
Hey, there’s no water straight there!
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Trento, After Dark
There’s a plaque on the wall behind them—honouring soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, fallen in a war a hundred years gone. But they’re not looking at that. Instead, three boys sit shoulder to shoulder on a wooden bench, huddled around a glowing Apple logo. A little too bright for the square. The light falls on their faces the way a fire once would have. They’re focused, not speaking much. Two watch the screen; one taps at his phone. Nobody’s in a rush. This is Trento at night: limestone façades, uneven cobbles, Mediterranean shrubs in planters, and now Wi-Fi in the air. The square is mostly empty. Just a few benches,…
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What lasts of a springtime hailstorm
The street was still echoing with the last low rumbles of thunder, and people had not yet come out of their doorways. The hailstones had gathered along the edge of the pavement, forming an accidental border where road meets kerb. They hadn’t yet begun to melt, and their translucency caught the ambient light in a way that made them seem brighter than the grey afternoon deserved. What interested me first was the contrast in scale and material—hard pellets of ice scattered among leaves that had been torn down in the wind. The leaves are not decorative; they are casualties of the weather, sudden and unplanned. Their colour breaks the monochrome…
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Restaurant or Hellgate?
I took this frame in passing — late, tired, camera already packed away, then unpacked again. The corridor drew me in. Or rather, the light did. That deep red glow — not warm, not inviting, but saturated and theatrical — pooling like blood on the chequered floor. At the end of the tunnel: a door, closed, with a neon sign above it that read “Ristorante.” The most ordinary word, rendered as a challenge. This isn’t a photo of a restaurant. It’s a photo of a threshold. Of ambiguity. Maybe of dread. The darkness at the sides, broken only by the faint reflections in glass and stone, keeps the eye centred.…
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Nightlife
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Alone, Together…
Are they friends, or do they just share the table?
