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A Red Floating Crate
This was one of those photographs that almost didn’t happen. I walked past the red pot twice before realising what caught my eye wasn’t just its colour, but its suspension—hanging alone against a heavy, over-textured wall, oddly weightless. It looked like it shouldn’t be there. It looked like it shouldn’t stay. The light was low and indirect, which helped. A stronger contrast would’ve killed the subtlety of the textures. Instead, the stone’s relief held together—old, porous, grimy—but still distinct. The soft light allowed the red to vibrate just enough to isolate it from the grey-brown backdrop without turning it into a gimmick. Framing was tight. I didn’t want to include…
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A Tribute to An Old Friend
The Lord Sinclair’s ZX Spectrum has been my first “real” computer, and the only one I really enjoyed. Now he (he, not “it”) proudly rests on a special place of my firm’s library, looking at his dumb heirs. Its rubber keys, some worn and chipped, still carry the traces of countless hours of programming and gaming. The rainbow stripe on the corner is faded but unmistakable, a design detail that anchors the memory of early home computing. Technically, the picture is a straightforward still life. The framing is tight, emphasising the object’s place among dictionaries and manuals, suggesting both its functional and cultural weight. The exposure is even, ensuring the…
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When the Rubbish Basket is full…
I made this photograph with the lens barely above the surface. The irony hit me only later: a crumpled, rusting bin—designed to contain waste—floating free, stripped of purpose, drifting like a rejected artefact in a river that had no interest in borders or rules. This wasn’t a chase-the-light moment. It was more of a document-what’s-happening moment. But even in documentary photography, composition matters. The crumpled bin sits dead-centre, emerging from the water like a reluctant symbol. The surrounding wash of grey-brown is indistinct by design—an oppressive field of repetition, without texture or detail, forcing the viewer back to that sodden, disfigured centre. Technically, I shot this with a long lens…
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An Altar for the Propaganda Machine
A powerful weapon, that equally served the good and the evil. I centred the composition with purpose. The typewriter is the object of worship—flanked symmetrically by twin candelabras, topped by a crude wire-and-canvas sketch. Every element builds the metaphor. This is not furniture. It’s altar, theatre, relic. The machine is a vintage Olivetti. The light picks out its curves softly from camera right, bouncing off the keys and reinforcing the tactile weight of metal. It’s flanked by yellow candles—unused, deliberately vertical, unnaturally pristine. The contrast isn’t subtle. Industrial memory and ornamental symbolism in rigid balance. Above it all, the artwork floats: childish, abstract, gestural. Possibly a bicycle, possibly nothing. I included it…
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The Double Helix
When I made this photograph, I was struck by the tension between form and function in the spiral staircase. The image does not seek drama or grandeur; instead, it isolates a fragment of everyday architecture and presents it as a study of rhythm and geometry. The curved underside of the staircase sweeps across the left of the frame, guiding the eye upward, while the metal railing introduces a vertical counterpoint. The steps themselves, worn and slightly uneven, add texture against the otherwise smooth surfaces. From a technical standpoint, I opted for a straightforward exposure, allowing the contrast between the whites of the wall and the greys of the steps to…
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Pre Colombian Artwork
Not in Mexico, anyway
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Do Not Touch
The sign was the first thing I saw — handwritten in blue felt-tip, barely taped to the surface: “NON TOCCARE! grazie.”No threat, no fine, just polite instruction. But it said more than warning signs ever could. A gesture of trust. Or desperation. Or both. This old cash register sat alone in the corner of a counter, no longer in use, no longer even fully functional by the look of it. Keys faded, paint chipped, buttons smoothed by time and repetition. It didn’t scream vintage charm — it whispered I’ve seen things. I shot it in available indoor light, pushing the ISO enough to recover the midtones without drowning in noise.…
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What Lasts of Last Summer
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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.
