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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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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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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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Head-Dresser
A market stall at first glance, and yet, a surreal composition unfolds. Plastic mannequin heads rise from wooden sticks, lined up with aloof dignity, each adorned with scarves and hats meant to lure the hurried passer-by. They stare silently into space, held aloft like modern-day trophies, eerily anthropomorphic yet stubbornly artificial. The display isn’t just for commerce—it’s unintentional theatre. The pun in the title Head-dresser plays cleverly on the expected hairdresser. But instead of grooming the living, this stall ‘dresses’ the disembodied, the ornamental. These mannequins are not being styled—they are the style, repurposed vessels for fashion’s utilitarian need. And to the side, a woman walks past in winter garb, seemingly unaware of…
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Why on Earth people, in Italy, still eat junk food?
A cold night in an Italian piazza. The air carries the scent of roasted chestnuts, espresso, and wood smoke—but here, under the halo of fairy lights, the smell is unmistakably different. Oil. Sugar. Processed salt. A small crowd stands in front of a street cart, its bicycle frame weighed down with canisters, bags, and the faint hum of a generator. The vendor moves with practised speed, ladling batter, folding paper, handing over parcels of deep-fried comfort. The queue is patient, hands buried in pockets, eyes following the ritual as if it were part of the winter tradition. Beyond the cart, a carousel spins in soft blur, its music faint against…
