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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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Raus
I took this photograph on a quiet street where the stillness of the scene clashed violently with the venom of the message sprayed across the wall. The phrase, written in crude, hurried strokes, is not a remnant from some distant, darker chapter of history but a fresh reminder that intolerance continues to thrive. The frame is stripped of distraction: a textured wall, a single small window with broken panes, and the shadow of a streetlamp reaching across the surface. The composition leans heavily on the tension between emptiness and statement. Placing the graffiti off-centre allows the cracked window to act as a counterweight, both visually and metaphorically—two forms of damage,…
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The three musket(b)eer
Guess who’s Porthos?
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In the backstage
There’s a kind of quiet tension in the way they lean against the wall. No people in sight. No instruments visible. Just the outlines of music, sleeping inside their forms. As a photographer, that’s the kind of silence you try to listen to. The room was dark, lit only from one side. The light caught the curve of one case and slipped off the edge of the other. Texture came forward. Shape. Memory. You could almost hear the faint creak of clasps, the echo of strings long since gone quiet. Sometimes the most expressive shots come when nothing is happening. No performance, no sound—just the pause in between. These cases…
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A party that shall never come
A dress and a bag waiting to be sold. Will the party ever take place?
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The Icecream is ready to be served
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Tables and Chairs, at Night
I was drawn to the repetition in this scene — a narrow path lined with tables and chairs, each set lit by a pool of light from the wall-mounted lamps. The rain had just stopped, and the wet stone reflected the glow, creating a subtle tonal contrast that runs like a silver ribbon through the composition. I chose to frame it at an angle that emphasises the recession into darkness, the line of tables pulling the viewer’s eye deeper into the image. The rhythm is regular but not mechanical; the slight variations in chair placement and the occasional break in symmetry prevent it from feeling sterile. The lamps provide natural…
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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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Fantozzi’s chairs
They look innocent enough — two soft, shapeless seats next to a rattan table, tucked under a wall in some coastal bar. But the title gives it away: Fracchia’s Chairs. And if you know the name, you know exactly what kind of scene this is. Giandomenico Fracchia, as played by Paolo Villaggio in the 1970s, was the tragicomic soul of bureaucratic Italy: servile, stammering, utterly at the mercy of authority. There’s a legendary sketch in which he’s being questioned by his boss — unable to sit still on a chair so round and formless it’s practically a trap. And here it is again, reimagined in polyurethane and branded with Nastro Azzurro. The…
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Fashionable’s shots
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Iron Gate
When craftmanship meets art.
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Big Brother Enhanced
A theme park is engineered to feel frictionless: queues are managed, routes are channelled, behaviour is gently scripted. In this photograph made at Gardaland on Lake Garda that engineering is rendered with an unvarnished literalness. The frame isolates a small assemblage of infrastructure: a CCTV camera, a public-address speaker, and a utilitarian lighting unit, all bolted to a rough stone surface.
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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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Snaps of a Flamenco recital…
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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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Shade of Berlin
… Jeff, Berlin.
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