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Which One?
The Abundance’s Paradox
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A Fujifilm X-E1 Annoyance
The X-E1 is a good camera, though has some annoyances that make it less handy for Street Photography. Contrary to Leica, (some) Zeiss or (some) Nikon lenses, zone-focusing is not set on the lens barrel. You must do it either through the viewfinder or the LCD, and this makes problematic the switch from one technique to another. Same is true for aperture settings. Operating the camera one-handed, happened twice to me, led to a change of the image quality settings from RAW to Jpg. Unfortunately I wasn’t aware while shooting and I’ve wasted half a day in Barcelona getting inferior quality pictures.
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Same Seats, Different Lifes
They’re close, but never been so distant
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A Roller Coaster… A Kind Of
It’s not a ride. But it feels like one. Shot with an ultra-wide lens, this pedestrian bridge bends and twists like it’s unsure whether it’s architecture or attraction. The metal curves upward, forward, out of the frame—pulling your eye (and your balance) with it. Perspective doesn’t just stretch here—it spirals. Geometry gets theatrical. At the top of the climb, a small group walks calmly, as if unaware they’re part of the illusion. No one is rushing. One wears yellow, another carries a bag—ordinary people on a not-so-ordinary structure. The Adriatic glints below, a boat docked quietly at the base. It could be a coastal scene from anywhere in Italy, but…
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Lamp
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Hanging Towels
This is what happens when coupling a summicron 50 (third gen) with a Fujifilm X-1.
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Tour Saint-Jacques, Standby
Paris, the city of light, reflects off the polished chrome helmets of the sapeurs-pompiers. The firemen stand poised, immobile but ready. Their posture does not betray fatigue, nor doubt—it’s the stance of trained patience, of focused anticipation. This image captures a moment between action and calm. The fire hoses lie coiled with potential energy, valves shut, mechanisms still untouched. Behind them, the urban rhythm carries on: buses glide, pedestrians move, the sirens wait. The presence of the firefighters, framed by the bustle of Haussmannian façades and traffic, signals that something mighthave happened—or almost did. The mirrored helmets become metaphors themselves. They do not just shield: they reflect the world around them. Their function is…
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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.
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What lasts of a springtime hailstorm
The street was still echoing with the last low rumbles of thunder, and people had not yet come out of their doorways. The hailstones had gathered along the edge of the pavement, forming an accidental border where road meets kerb. They hadn’t yet begun to melt, and their translucency caught the ambient light in a way that made them seem brighter than the grey afternoon deserved. What interested me first was the contrast in scale and material—hard pellets of ice scattered among leaves that had been torn down in the wind. The leaves are not decorative; they are casualties of the weather, sudden and unplanned. Their colour breaks the monochrome…
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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.…
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Waiting for a Future to Tell
Behind the slightly dusty glass of an old tobacco shop window, a box of tarot cards stands upright, holding its ground with a quiet dignity. The label reads taotl, the colours still vivid despite the years: red flames, green leaves, a central emblem that seems both protective and dangerous. Beneath, the name Masenghini anchors it in a very specific history of Italian card-making, a craft now mostly relegated to collectors and the nostalgic. Around it, other objects share the same slow fate: a light-blue school exercise book titled Quaderno, some patterned boxes, a rolled cylinder of bright turquoise paper. Everyday relics, all bathed in the soft, uneven light that only old glass and time…
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The Worst Moment to Fix a Shoe’s Problem
Caught on a descending escalator, mid-bend, mid-thought—this is the photograph of a decision made too late. Everything in this frame leans forward. The vanishing point pulls you down, hard, like gravity with intention. The blur on the metal steps mimics momentum. You can almost feel the hum of machinery and the silent urgency of descent. At the centre of it all: a man hunched over, trying to wrestle control over something small and unruly—perhaps a loose shoelace, perhaps something more symbolic. I didn’t plan this shot. It happened fast. A reflex. Shot handheld, low light, no time to think, just enough to feel. The imperfection—the motion blur, the noise, the…
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Sideways Through the Tunnel
This photograph was taken in the last leg of a trip to Rome, from inside my car while standing still because one of the many and usual traffic jam on the Tangenziale. I tried to have the road not to dominate the frame, fragmenting it, instead. A dark curve cuts through the image, separating two visual registers: the solid, static wall on the left and the receding tunnel of lights on the right. The image is less about travel than about perception while travelling. The motion blur and softness at the edges weren’t deliberate; they happened by chance. However, I like the result nonetheless. The photo would have felt dishonest…
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Hard Spam
Sometimes spam doesn’t hide in your inbox. It glows in a pharmacy window. Shot on a quiet evening walk, this storefront display in Rome—or somewhere very much like it—caught my attention with the subtlety of a neon bullhorn. A perfectly literal interpretation of hard advertising: Viagra, Levitra, Cialis. Bold red font, urgent discounts, official decree cited. Street-level pharma meets street-level comedy. The scene is absurdly human. Framed by a closed shutter and a lonely Gaviscon box, the paper sign is taped like a last-minute school notice, but the message is anything but shy. There’s no algorithm, no clickbait. Just unapologetic, front-facing capital letters offering a prescription-strength punchline. It’s spam—but analogue. No filters,…
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Waiting for the Justice to Arrive
In this hallway of the Tribunale Penale di Roma, time seems suspended. Lawyers sit or stand, briefcases at their feet, bundles of files in hand. Some engage in hushed conversation, others review notes with ritualistic precision. A woman in red draws the eye—a rare burst of colour in an otherwise subdued palette of solemnity. The title, Waiting for the Justice to Arrive, operates on two planes. On the surface, it is procedural. The court has not yet opened its doors; the judge is late, the hearing is postponed. These legal professionals must simply wait—idle, static, alert. Justice, here, is both person and principle: the judge must enter the courtroom for proceedings…
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Under the Yellow Umbrella
It had just stopped raining—just enough to make the pavement shine, but not enough to fold away the umbrellas. I took this photo in passing. No setup, no waiting. Just a quiet moment shared by two people walking slowly, pushing a shopping trolley and carrying a red bag, both tucked under a loud yellow Bardahl-branded umbrella. The kind of umbrella you don’t buy, but are given somewhere and end up using forever. There’s nothing dramatic here. No grand gesture. Just two people—maybe a couple, maybe not—navigating a wet day together. The colours caught me: the dull browns, the muted jackets, that flash of red, and of course the umbrella. It…
