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An Inside Irongate
Inside and old building, in the heart of Rome.
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The Angel Maker
There are some things you only find in Rome. Down a narrow street behind the Teatro di Pompeo, inside a studio that smells of dust, turpentine and time, I watched a man restoring angels. Not metaphorically—literally. Plaster cherubs laid out across the table, grey with primer, one mid-stroke under his steady brush. The place looked more like a reliquary than a workshop. And in a way, it was. He’s a master restorer. The kind of figure you expect in an old Fellini film, surrounded by faded tapestries, cracked frames, and gold leaf so fine it breathes when you exhale near it. But this wasn’t a scene. This was a day’s…
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Italy, Landscape Photography and the Law – Part Two
In a previous post I addressed some of the legal issues involved in Landscape Photography where copyright was willfully not mentioned: since copyright is an outcome of human creativity who might ever think of imposing it over a landscape? Well, as much as it sounds crazy, somebody did it: on 2o11 the Town of San Quirico d’Orcia, in Tuscany, passed a local regulation that copyrights landscape images and artistic, cultural, environmental and architectural “stuff”, making mandatory pro shooter to ask for an authorization before starting their sessions. This local regulation is simply illegal, because “copyright” implies an act of creativity, while the landscape in itself doesn’t (unless you believe in…
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A Zen Garden?
Not very, actually…
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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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Hanging Clothes Waiting to Dry
I made this photograph on a terrace overlooking the valley, where the most ordinary of domestic acts — laundry drying in the sun — becomes unexpectedly theatrical. The line of garments stretches across the frame, their irregular shapes and colours set against the vast blue expanse of the background. The rural landscape below, softened by distance and haze, contrasts with the immediacy of cotton, wool, and synthetic fabric caught in the breeze. From a technical standpoint, the image is driven by colour and contrast. The saturation is high, which intensifies the reds, purples, and greens of the clothing and the terracotta of the terrace. Against the cool, almost painterly tones…
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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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Wrecked Hull
There’s something oddly compelling about the scars of a boat out of the water. Without the softening shimmer of the sea, the hull stands exposed — every scratch, blister, and patch telling a story of its time afloat. When I came across this one, propped up on its stand, the colours struck me first: the chalky off-white giving way to the battered turquoise, with angry flashes of red oxide bleeding through like old wounds reopening. I framed it tight, keeping the top and bottom of the hull cropped to remove any distraction from the shapes and textures. The horizontal divide of colour became my anchor, with the wooden prop jutting…
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A Relaxed Call
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The Fisherman’s Knots
In an age of automation, efficiency, and scale, this image restores dignity to the gesture of the hand. The photograph captures a fisherman absorbed in the ancient ritual of mending his net—a task as old as seafaring itself. His fingers, calloused and sure, draw thread through mesh with the concentration of a craftsman rather than a labourer. There is no sea in sight, only scaffolding, plastic tape, and the anonymous infrastructure of a modern dock. Yet this contrast only strengthens the narrative: amid industrial noise, a human persists in doing things slowly, correctly, traditionally. The net becomes more than a tool—it is sustenance, memory, continuity. Every knot ties past to…
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Blowin in the Wind
Hopefully, he shouldn’t fall on the ground…
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Just a soccer field… Part 3
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Just a soccer field… Part 2
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Just a Soccer Field… Part 1
Just a soccer field… the only place where freedom lasts, but just for the time of a match.
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In-Eye
Photography has a curious way of leading the mind into patterns — an instinctive search for meaning, even when none exists. We are hardwired to interpret shapes and juxtapositions, to anthropomorphise objects, to find faces in clouds and stories in shadows. This image is one such case: a seemingly simple shot of a ship seen through a weathered window, yet the geometry conspires to suggest something far more figurative. Here, the diamond-shaped porthole becomes an eyelid, its corroded frame the brow, and beyond it, the bow of the ship forms an unmistakable iris and pupil. It’s a quiet trick of composition — one I noticed only after the fact —…
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Good Idea
… bad execution. The shot would have been acceptable if the head of the fisherman had the sky as a background instead of the bow.
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Against the Tide
There’s a stillness in this frame that caught me before I even thought about the technical side. A lone figure on a bicycle, paused at the edge of the pier, framed by the unbroken horizon and the muted textures of concrete and water. The light is soft, almost hesitant — no harsh shadows, no dazzling highlights — as if the scene itself wanted to remain understated. I worked to keep the composition balanced but not too neat. The lamp post on the right anchors the image without overpowering it, while the figure sits almost at the centre, enough to draw the eye but still letting the expanse of sea and…
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W Verdi
Milan rewards you when you walk slowly. I turned a corner and found a living quotation mark to a poster: an elderly man paused beneath a billboard of a stern, bearded face—Giuseppe Verdi by way of contemporary graphic design. The likeness was uncanny enough to make the old slogan in my head—Viva Verdi—mutate into “W Verdi,” a wink at how public imagery and real life can rhyme. I built the frame around that rhyme. The poster anchors the top-right quadrant while the man occupies the lower-left, a diagonal conversation that keeps the eye ping-ponging across the picture. I left generous negative space to let the pairing breathe; too tight and…
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Lost Cigarettes at Piazza Affari
The Milan Stock-Exchange is just closed, another stressful day is gone, so are the cigarettes. The Milan Stock Exchange has just closed. Another day of trading — of numbers, speculation, tension, and relief — is over. The square begins to exhale. The crowds thin, footsteps fade, and the traces of human presence remain in small, almost invisible ways. Here, in a shallow puddle on the cobblestones of Piazza Affari, the day’s residue is quietly recorded: cigarette butts, scraps, and the inverted grandeur of a neoclassical façade. I was drawn to the way the water held both the building’s form and the detritus of the day in a single frame. The reflection, sharp…
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Let’s get the party started…
Fishing boats have a way of announcing themselves well before they reach the harbour wall. The sound of the engine carries over the water, but it’s the birds that really give them away — a moving cloud of wings and calls, circling, swooping, waiting for the scraps that will inevitably be thrown overboard. This shot catches the “Nuova Zita” in that precise moment of return, driving straight toward me, bow cutting through the water, foam rising in a perfect V. I chose a dead-centre composition, a choice some might consider too rigid, but here it felt essential. The boat’s symmetry — red trim framing the white hull, the vertical mast…
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The Guardian
Not scaring as a Pitbull would, but still deserving to be handled with care… He didn’t move. Not even when I approached with the camera. Not even when I paused to adjust the lens. He just stared—calm, unblinking, sure of his place. This photo was taken outside a closed wooden structure. Maybe a seasonal shack, maybe a beachside store. The railings were weathered, the wood silvered by sun and salt. Everything about the setting felt unfinished, in-between. Except for him. The black cat sat at the centre like he’d been assigned the role. Not hiding, not curious—just there. Positioned perfectly in the geometry of the fence, flanked by empty space…
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Late Night Arrival at Bertinoro’s Castle
There’s something about fog that eats light and sound in equal measure. At Bertinoro that night, the mist rolled in thick and silent, swallowing the medieval walls until they were no more than looming shapes. The only figure breaking the gloom was this woman, striding toward the castle gate with a purpose that suggested she hoped — perhaps against reason — that someone inside might still be awake. I shot this in black and white not as an afterthought, but because the scene demanded it. Colour would have been irrelevant here — the atmosphere was all about tonal gradation, shadow, and grain. Yes, grain. This isn’t the crisp, low-noise look…
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Leaving The Actor’s Studio
No, the title is not a misspell. To perform as a true artist, the Actors Studio must actually become an actor’s studio. Shot handheld on a cold night in New York, I framed this outside the famous 44th Street façade of The Actors Studio. What drew me wasn’t the name, but the irony held in the glow above the door. Big, institutional lettering—THE ACTORS STUDIO—brightly lit, looming. Yet below it, a single man stands, barely visible, caught in the diffused downlight from the marquee. It wasn’t staged. He just was there—half-shadowed, alone, waiting. Technically, this is a push to the edge. ISO was high, grain heavy. Shadows crush into black. Highlights…
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The Lost Battle
Against the New York traffic, the controllers themselves, contended in vain.
