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Lockpicking Tools
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Superpila still rides…
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The Coach
In the corner of the ring, where no cameras reach and the noise momentarily fades, something deeper than training unfolds. This image doesn’t speak of punches thrown or points scored. It captures that fleeting minute between rounds—the space where a fighter breathes, bleeds, and breaks, while a coach rebuilds with nothing more than words, water, and presence. The boxer’s face tells of the cost: a swollen lip, a grimace barely masking pain, but also something else—determination still flickering beneath the bruises. The coach leans in, not shouting, not berating. This is not strategy; it is communion. The fight, at this point, is as much against doubt as it is against…
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Davide Grotta – Live
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Stop
In the squared circle, adrenaline and instinct often outrun reason. A fighter, eyes blazing, may push past his body’s warning signs, driven by pride, by the will to win, or simply by the refusal to yield. It is in these moments that the referee’s role shifts from arbiter of the rules to guardian of life itself. This image captures that exact intersection—one man still in the heat of battle, the other standing between him and the risk of irreversible harm. The referee’s gloved hands rest firmly yet not aggressively, an unspoken command to stop. His gaze is steady, his body language unshaken, projecting both authority and concern. In boxing, bravery…
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Marianna D’ama – Live
The stage is barely the size of a rug. The audience—two dozen at most—sits within arm’s reach. There is no spotlight to hide behind, no sound engineer to balance the mix, no roaring crowd to dissolve into. Just a voice, an instrument, and the intimacy of shared air. In this photograph, the singer leans into the microphone with the same intensity one might expect in front of thousands. Her eyes are half-closed, her body wrapped around the rhythm, maracas held like extensions of her heartbeat. The grain of the black and white frame amplifies the sense of proximity—every shadow a whisper, every highlight a breath. House concerts are unforgiving in…
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We Are All Made of Stars
The street is slick with rain, fenced for works in progress, cluttered with signs and barriers. Yet above it all, the stars have returned — bright, geometric, electric — heralding the slow, luminous arrival of Christmas in Brussels. A lone figure walks toward the camera, wrapped in a scarf and his own thoughts. He is grounded, ordinary, human. But above him, a constellation of neon dreams stretches deep into the vanishing point, inviting passersby to look up, to believe, even if just for a moment. This photograph captures the paradox of the urban winter: cold, messy, fractured — and yet luminous with potential. The construction fences are still up, the…
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Caparezza – Live@Palamaggetti Roseto degli Abruzzi
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Menu Meditation
There’s a particular silence in cafés just before ordering. That moment when the cold air from outside still clings to your coat, and all attention narrows to laminated options and the quiet negotiations of hunger. This was taken on a grey afternoon in Brussels. A couple sits across from each other, each reading their own menu as if studying for an exam. No phones. No talking. Just decisions to be made: sweet or savoury, warm or cold, this or that. It’s a familiar ritual, yet rarely observed this closely. What drew me in wasn’t the scene’s drama—there was none—but its quietness. The soft concentration on their faces, the gentle lean…
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Caparezza – Live@Palamaggetti Roseto degli Abruzzi
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The Bystander
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Fujifilm XF 100-400: a quick test
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A Couple of Windows
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Max Casacci – Live@Circolo Aternino, Pescara
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Alone
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Halt!
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Not A Rorschach Inkblot
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Servicing a Sig Sauer P226
This frame came together as a study of routine and tactility rather than drama. The hands, well-worn and pragmatic, are in mid-action—focused, unposed, doing what they’ve likely done a hundred times before. It’s not a glamour shot of a weapon. It’s a photograph of labour, care, and the quiet diligence of someone who knows their way around a mechanical system. The Sig Sauer P226, known for its precision and reliability, has always struck me as more tool than totem. That sense informed how I chose to shoot this: close, compressed, honest. I avoided depth-of-field tricks or shallow focus. The visual language here is functional, echoing the subject matter. The background…
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A Shooter
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Missed Airplane
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Is Batman Coming To Town?
There are moments in photography when nature conspires to hand you a frame so surreal, you almost question its authenticity. This image is one of those moments — a shaft of blazing light erupting from the horizon, punching through the heavy grey sky like a celestial spotlight. The comic-book reference in the title is apt; it’s as if Gotham’s bat-signal has been reimagined over a Mediterranean fishing port. From a compositional standpoint, the photograph benefits from the strong vertical energy of the light beam, cutting cleanly through the otherwise horizontal layout of boats, masts, and buildings. The balance between the darkened marina in the foreground and the dramatic burst of…
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Sega Codemaster
There’s a certain kind of nostalgia that hums in the air around old arcade machines — the whirr of the fans, the dull thump of buttons, the phosphor glow of a screen just a little too close for comfort. This photograph leans into that, not by showing the player, but by staring straight down the throat of the beast itself. The composition is blunt and unapologetic: the steering wheel dead-centre, its SEGA logo and stylised crest almost daring you to sit down and prove yourself. Behind it, the game’s leaderboard spills out in garish blues, whites, and yellows, with Spa Francorchamps’ familiar curves just visible on the left. There’s a…
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The Quiet Riot
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Los Niños y El Tocaor
The guitarist was Pedro Navarro, and he played with the kind of intimate conviction that can silence a room without demanding it. I took the shot during a flamenco recital in a modest Spanish cultural venue, one of those places where chairs creak and plaster flakes off the walls, but the soul is palpable. What caught me wasn’t just the precision of his fingers on the strings, or the deliberate slowness of the opening compás—it was the quiet appearance of the two boys at the back. Dressed like miniature adults, suspended in a corridor of sound and formality, unsure whether to stay or move on. One places a hand on…
