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Is The Sky Falling On Their Heads?
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While the kids grow-up…
While the kids grow-up, a father waits with patience.
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EOS-M. An Act of Fairness
I’ve been anything but gentle in my assessment of the Canon EOS-M’s street photography credentials. In the chaos of fast-moving urban life, it has always felt a step behind — hesitant where others are decisive. But fairness demands balance, and in the stillness of landscape work, this little mirrorless manages to surprise. This frame, taken with the humble 18-55mm stabilised kit lens, shows the EOS-M in its element. The river’s current twists and glides across the frame, textures shifting from silky blur to glassy detail, the greens of moss and the reddish undertones of the rocks holding their place against the moving water. The stabilisation works in quiet partnership with…
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Early Morning’s Cleanup
The time goes by, and the song remains the same. Work until late night, clean up early in the morning.
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The Cameraman
There’s a quiet heroism to the figure of a cameraman mid-shoot. This image captures that intensity — the squint of concentration, the firm but fluid grip on the camera, the slight tilt of his head as if aligning himself with the rhythm of the scene unfolding before him. The bright red of the staircase behind him injects energy into the frame, contrasting sharply with his dark clothing and the muted tones of the camera equipment. The composition works in part because it respects the subject’s craft. The frame is tight enough to convey focus, yet wide enough to hint at context: the scaffolding, the staging, the theatre of production. The…
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Crowd Control
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The Suit
How would it feel like, when everybody around goes to the beach, wearing a suit and going to the office?
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Lorenzo negli stadi
Rockol.it – a music-oriented online magazine I work with – published the reportage I did at the Jovanotti’s “Lorenzo negli stadi tour 2013” in Pescara (IT). Here are the other pictures.
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The SoundMaster
You don’t usually see them—not really. They’re always there, but never in the spotlight. Still, without them, there wouldn’t be a show. I was at a concert recently, camera in hand, doing what I normally do—trying to catch something a little off-stage, something that tells the rest of the story. That’s when I spotted him: back to the crowd, eyes on the board, headphones hanging loose around his neck. Focused, steady. Doing the kind of work that only gets noticed when something goes wrong. I framed the shot from behind. The lights of the soundboard, all blinking and glowing, lit up the edges of his shirt—a simple icon of a…
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Three of a Kind
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Evolution of a Guitar Player
It’s strange how a decade can pass in the blink of an eye — and yet carry with it the weight of evolution. The last time I met Roberto Di Virgilio, he had a Steinberger in his hands: all sharp edges, carbon fibre, and the aura of the 1980s futurism that guitarists either loved or dismissed outright. Seeing him now, a Les Paul slung across his shoulder, feels almost like a chapter shift in a novel I didn’t realise I was still reading. The photograph was taken in the kind of setting that usually conspires against the photographer: a stage during setup, flat midday light filtered through the structure above,…
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The Calm Newsreader
Piazza del Duomo is never truly still. The stone expanse acts as both stage and thoroughfare, where the pace of life is measured in contrasts. In this pair of images, that tension is laid bare: a young woman, mid-stride, the blur of her step almost audible, shares the same visual field as a man in a red shirt who sits in unhurried contemplation, newspaper in hand. The composition in the first frame benefits from the deliberate use of foreground and background separation. The woman is caught in that decisive moment—foot lifted, eyes focused ahead—while the man remains anchored in his position, reading. The interplay between their postures tells a story…
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A Lost Towel
No one around. Just sun, sand, and something left behind. The beach was empty when I passed through—early or late, hard to say—but this towel was there, alone, crumpled and vivid. Its colours refused to blend in: yellows, reds, a printed image of something once meaningful, now half-folded by the wind. It didn’t look forgotten. It looked abandoned. What caught my eye more than the towel was what surrounded it: tyre marks, footprints, all criss-crossing paths layered into the sand. As if everyone passed by but no one stopped. It felt recent, but not urgent—like whoever left it didn’t mean to come back. The shot came together quickly. Low angle…
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The Smoke Teacher
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The Elders’ Council
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A Seagull in Rome
No, thanks. We need no glass…
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A Quiet Evening
… in the heart of Rome, an old trattoria let people enjoy a quiet diner.
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The Sailor
Hey, there’s no water straight there!
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Trento, After Dark
There’s a plaque on the wall behind them—honouring soldiers of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, fallen in a war a hundred years gone. But they’re not looking at that. Instead, three boys sit shoulder to shoulder on a wooden bench, huddled around a glowing Apple logo. A little too bright for the square. The light falls on their faces the way a fire once would have. They’re focused, not speaking much. Two watch the screen; one taps at his phone. Nobody’s in a rush. This is Trento at night: limestone façades, uneven cobbles, Mediterranean shrubs in planters, and now Wi-Fi in the air. The square is mostly empty. Just a few benches,…
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What lasts of a springtime hailstorm
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Alone, Together…
Are they friends, or do they just share the table?
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Rest under a tree
Resting under a tree, on a sunny afternoon, in springtime.
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Love is like a flower
Love is like a flower, Both need care and attention to grow, Both die if not fed, Both don’t last forever.
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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.…
