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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?
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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.
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The Casual Observer
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While Waiting for the Food
Somewhere coastal, sometime after sundown. The table is set, the drinks half gone, the plates not yet full. It’s the in-between moment—the pause before the meal arrives, when conversation either deepens or disappears. He’s on his phone, thumb scrolling with purpose, eyes locked to the glow. Around him, the restaurant hums: plastic chairs, thatched roof, barefoot kids running between tables, the usual clatter of dishes and casual voices. A holiday place, probably. Warm air, sea salt, and time meant to be slower. What struck me was not the act—because it’s common—but the woman across from him. Half-hidden, partly blurred, yet watching. Not annoyed, not angry. Just watching. The kind of…
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Vinyl Never Dies
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The Doorman
Another hard night at the door is going to start.
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The Silent Dialog
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Rest On The Way Back Home
After a night of amusement, sleep can’t wait.
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A Puff of Smoke
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Bycicle Ride
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Afternoon’s Mumbling
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Pillars Of The Beach
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The Nightmare
I never realized how important is to shoot unnoticed – and respect people – during public performances until I went to a tango exhibition, last night. This guy has been a pain in the neck: he shoot by paying almost no attention to the public, his remotely-operated flashing at his ease – no matter if the people was getting strobes in its eyes.
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Staring At The Infinite
Will this love lasts as much?
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When The Passion Is Gone (thank to a sneaky photographer)
The close-up delivers a feeling of hot passion, as often tangueros do. But a wider view, including that sneaky photographer, kills the mood.
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High Heels Ghost
On Saturday night, ghosts too dress themselves up.
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Saturday Night’s Ice Cream
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When We Were Kids
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Avid Readers
Anything, Anywhere…
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Gotcha!
It was the contrast that caught my eye. A man stands knee-deep in the Adriatic shallows, focused, precise, moving a small blue net through the water like he’s brushing dust off glass. He’s working under the shadow of a trabocco—a towering wooden fishing machine, all cables and beams, designed to drop massive nets and haul in fish by the hundreds. The kind of structure that speaks of industry, tradition, scale. But here he is. Alone. Shirtless. Waist-deep. Fishing by hand. The second frame pulls back. You see it all—the full span of the trabocco, its arms stretched wide like a maritime cathedral. And at the base, dwarfed by design, the same man…
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Is This Smoke?
It seems so.