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Italian Stardust
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Inside an Old Gym
There’s a quiet dignity to this corner of a forgotten gym — the kind of place that smells faintly of chalk, iron, and decades of sweat baked into the walls. The dumbbells, spherical and capped with worn white bands, sit on their metal stand like relics from another era. Behind them, weight plates lean casually against peeling plaster, the faded “S.I.R.E.A. Roma” inscriptions a reminder that these tools once carried prestige in the hands of athletes who are now long gone. The composition makes excellent use of the tight corner. By framing the equipment against two converging walls, the photographer forces the viewer’s gaze into the scene, trapping it in…
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Crate
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Too Big To Be Dumped
This frame came to life walking past an alley where time seems to have hit pause. The bins stand in perfect alignment, regimented like bureaucratic soldiers, while behind them, the decaying wall tells a different story—chaotic, layered, unresolved. I shot this with a 35mm prime, letting the midday sun carve stark shadows that add to the irony of this supposed order. The exposure demanded precision. Too much light and I’d have lost the texture on the old plaster; too little and the bins would sink into murk. I leaned into the contrast, embracing the Leica’s natural tonal harshness in black and white. No dramatic angles, no “decisive moment” flourish—just frontal,…
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An Old Wi(n)dow
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Faces in the Façade: A Ghostly Smile in Stone
The camera tilts upward, catching the weathered skin of a building where plaster peels like old parchment. Two circles and an arch, carved decades ago, sit quietly above the passageway. Yet in this photograph, the mind cannot help but play: the decoration forms a round-eyed, wide-mouthed face, its features soft and slightly comic. The resemblance is uncanny—here is the echo of the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters, peering down with an oblivious grin. The cracked and flaking surface becomes its aging skin, the faded stucco a reminder that even ghosts of pop culture can find new haunts in architecture. Light and shadow turn structural detail into character. The deep arch below reads…
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The Heart Of Giulietta
There is something about an Alfa Romeo engine bay that resists anonymity. Even in a close crop, stripped of context, you know you are looking at more than mechanical function—you are seeing Italian engineering as an act of design. This photograph of a Giulietta’s twin-cam engine captures that balance of precision and personality. The aluminium cam cover, its surface softly patinated by years of heat and breath, bears the proud Olio cap in crisp relief. The lines are clean but never sterile, the casting both purposeful and beautiful. Four orange ignition leads arc neatly toward the distributor, their gentle curves as intentional as the arcs of a sculptor’s chisel. The…
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An Old Portable Camera
I didn’t stage this. The camera was already set up for a workshop in the park, a portable wooden box on a tripod, complete with focusing cloth and a ground glass screen. What drew me wasn’t the device itself—it was the reaction it triggered. The boy shielding his eyes, squinting into the past through a lens designed long before smartphones flattened photography into a gesture. The composition is dense in its centre, almost chaotic with overlapping limbs and sneakers. But the tripod anchors it. The machine, primitive and precise, holds its ground in a circle of discovery. I kept the perspective low and frontal to emphasise its presence as a…
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A Haunted(?) House
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Food For Thought
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An Old School Workstation
It’s not just a desk. It’s a time capsule. A stack of worn books. Pages thick with annotation and use. The chipped edge of a hardcover bent from years of handling. And just out of focus, the heavy presence of a typewriter—silent now, but once the loudest voice in the room. This photo is titled An Old School Workstation, and it says more than it shows. There’s no screen here, no cursor blinking for attention. Just tools. Weighty, tactile, deliberate. This was how knowledge was built—layer by layer, keystroke by keystroke, turned page after turned page. The contrast to today is hard to ignore. Now we scroll, we skim, we tap…
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A Rusted Window
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A Broken Gearwheel
I came across this fragment of concrete by chance — two heavy, jagged halves lying on a bed of smooth stones, their shapes echoing the teeth of a gearwheel. It looked industrial, almost mechanical, yet entirely static and inert. There was no motion here, only the suggestion of it, frozen in decay. When I composed the frame, I aimed to make the gear the clear focal point while still allowing the surrounding textures to play their part. The roughness of the stone bed contrasts nicely with the flat, worn surface of the concrete pieces. The diagonal orientation of the gear halves gives the image a touch of dynamism that the…
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When We Thought We Would Have Changed The World
I took this photograph at a street market, where these shirts hung in plain view, each one shouting a message of defiance. Slogans, graphics, and colours combined into a tapestry of protest, reminders of a time when politics and identity were worn quite literally on the chest. The immediacy of the words—ribelli sempre, non mi avrete mai come volete voi—speaks of resistance, of collective identity built in opposition to authority. I framed the image tightly to remove context and distractions. The viewer is left with nothing but the shirts, their messages, and the pins holding them up. This close composition turns an everyday street scene into a typographic study. The…
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Inside the Nazario Sauro
Looking through a watertight bulkhead of the Nazario Sauro, the cold geometry of war endures in steel, cables, dials and cathode-ray screens. The composition is structured by layers: iron framing, claustrophobic corridors, an old radar glowing faintly in the dark. Emptiness fills the frame, and yet it speaks of presence. Of watchfulness. Of command. There are no people here—only ghosts of orders barked, bearings plotted, torpedoes primed. Everything is still, museum-still. But the submarine’s essence hasn’t retired. Its mass, its function, its purpose remain engraved in the very angles and wires now dormant. A chair sits in front of the radar—straight, waiting, unoccupied. It could be yesterday, or seventy years ago.…
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The Lost Lock
The photograph is focused on the weathered surface of a wooden door, its grain worn deep by time and use. At the centre sits a latch, secured by a small brass pin, surrounded by the scars of previous fittings. Above it, oversized keyholes mark the door’s history of repairs and replacements, each shadow stretching long across the wood in the midday light. Technically, the image is about texture and shadow. The exposure favours the roughness of the timber, rendering every fissure and nail hole in sharp detail. The sunlight is strong, but instead of washing out the surface, it enhances contrast, pulling the metallic coldness of the lock against the…
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Caged?
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Much Too Powerful a Knock…
The subject here is as straightforward as it gets: a wall, framed by rusted metal edges, and a hole clean enough to suggest sudden, concentrated force. The image works because it refuses embellishment — no dramatic angles, no post-production theatrics, just a direct record of an event’s aftermath. Compositionally, the vertical framing contains the scene like a display case, while the rust on either side breaks the monotony of the pale plaster. The crack lines radiating from the impact point add an organic texture, guiding the viewer’s eye back to the centre. The absence of any human figure allows the imagination to dwell on cause and consequence. From a technical…
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Cupido’s Fall
There was a time when Cupido ruled the world. Not the cherubic archer of myth, but the man on the torn poster — a champion accordionist, his name blazing in dotted capitals, promising music and spectacle. Now, the paper curls at the edges, bleached and scarred by weather, the glory half-erased by time and graffiti. The god of love meets the fate of every earthly name: reduced to a fading print on a damp wall, fighting a losing battle against rust, mould, and the next layer of urban scribble. The photograph works because it understands the poetry of decay. The black-and-white treatment is an apt choice — stripping the scene…
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Longtime Abandoned
Some photographs speak in whispers, and this image of a weathered wooden door is one of them. Its panels are mottled with time—stains, scratches, and the slow creep of age have worked their way into every fibre. A crude plank, bolted across two round metal handles, serves as a lock, its blunt practicality making any notion of elegance irrelevant. This is not a door meant to welcome; it is a barrier meant to last. The surface reads like a palimpsest. Graffiti, faint and uneven, is etched into the upper left panel—“MAS” followed by lines and symbols that could be initials, a date, or nothing at all. The ambiguity is part…
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Under an Old Roof
A scrap of newspaper clings to the surface of a wooden beam, yellowed by time, softened by dust. The print advertises used cars, once a promise of mobility and new beginnings, now only a faded record of another era. Above, the roof beams reveal gaps, through which light seeps, fractured and uncertain, illuminating what remains. The photograph works in layers: the brittle newsprint, the rough wood, the dim background of tiles and sky. Each element bears marks of age, but together they tell a quiet story of storage, neglect, and survival. It is less about the subject itself than about what it represents—the persistence of the ordinary beneath the erosion…
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Windows XVIII … Century
This photograph came from an unplanned encounter while wandering through the corridors of a fading building in via del Governo Vecchio — the sort of place where time has done more than simply pass; it has settled in, quietly shaping every surface. The pane of glass here isn’t modern, nor mass-produced. Its circular impressions are the handiwork of an 18th-century glassmaker, each bubble imperfect, each one carrying the slight distortion of a craft long past. The Leica M9, with its full-frame CCD sensor, brought something special to the scene. That sensor has a way of rendering colour and micro-contrast that feels almost film-like, which was ideal for this subject. The…
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The Arson
The wind had carried the scent long before I arrived—burnt resin, iron oxide, the telltale acridity of ash cooling under morning sun. What was once structure and story was now a cinder pile, framed awkwardly by two still-standing beams like broken arms. I didn’t need to ask what happened. I just raised the camera. This photograph leans into disorder. The eye stumbles across charred planks, twisted metal, and a scorched panel half-folded in retreat. It’s not elegant, and I didn’t want it to be. The strength of the frame lies in its refusal to sanitise. Destruction is inherently chaotic; presenting it neatly would be a betrayal of what it is.…
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Inside a Lost Building
