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The Chess Players
Well, this is not Alechin vs Capablanca but… who cares? The photograph captures two men deep in thought over a chessboard, in what appears to be the dim, warm interior of a Brussels café. One sits with his back to the camera, the word Corvette stitched boldly across his jacket. The other, leaning forward with his hand pressed to his temple, peers at the pieces through half-slipped glasses. Between them, the board sits in a pool of light — the only element in sharp enough focus to feel anchored — while the surrounding chairs and tables fade softly into the background. Compositionally, I opted for a perspective that placed the…
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An Intense Conversation
Some photographs hold silence. This is one of them. Shot in a small restaurant in Bruxelles — the kind you’d only find by chance, and never the same way twice — this frame preserves what no longer can be: a place, a conversation, a quiet evening at a table now vanished. Two women sit facing one another, generations apart, mirrored by the soft geometry of light and posture. One speaks — or perhaps listens. The other waits — or perhaps remembers. Their hands do most of the talking, resting, folding, rising to punctuate a point. There’s water on the table, a half-empty bottle, a flickering red votive. Nothing staged. Everything…
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Lost in mumbling
It was a hot evening, the kind that slows time down. I stood just inside the entrance of a small southern Italian bar, camera slung low, as this scene unfolded naturally in front of me. Two young men, surrounded by the low buzz of a small crowd and the fading daylight, absorbed in their own bubble of silence. One leans into his smartphone with all the weight of someone trying to escape; the other, lost in thought, stares past the counter’s glare. The band in the background plays on, unnoticed. I framed the shot deliberately tight, giving the Ferrarelle fridge full prominence. It anchors the scene in place and era—local,…
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While Waiting for the Food
Somewhere coastal, sometime after sundown. The table is set, the drinks half gone, the plates not yet full. It’s the in-between moment—the pause before the meal arrives, when conversation either deepens or disappears. He’s on his phone, thumb scrolling with purpose, eyes locked to the glow. Around him, the restaurant hums: plastic chairs, thatched roof, barefoot kids running between tables, the usual clatter of dishes and casual voices. A holiday place, probably. Warm air, sea salt, and time meant to be slower. What struck me was not the act—because it’s common—but the woman across from him. Half-hidden, partly blurred, yet watching. Not annoyed, not angry. Just watching. The kind of…
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Vinyl Never Dies
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The Doorman
Night work has its own silence, even when it’s loud. I made this frame just before the crowd arrived — a kind of photographic inhale before the push and pull of a Saturday night began. The doorman stands alone, his posture almost statuesque, braced against the neon wash of the venue’s lighting. The composition leans heavily on verticality. I intentionally let the figure anchor the centre, framed between structural elements and artificial glow. It’s an image of solitude and readiness, not action — and that contrast is what I wanted to preserve. The light is tough: mixed colour temperatures, harsh reflections, and flat backgrounds. But I didn’t correct it. It…
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A Puff of Smoke
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Saturday Night’s Ice Cream
This image was taken late one summer evening, in that quiet stretch after dinner but before the streets empty out. The man in the frame is devouring his ice cream like it’s the first proper moment he’s had to himself all day—elbows on knees, back curved forward, eyes fixed on the cone like it holds more than just pistachio and stracciatella. Technically speaking, the photograph is far from pristine. Handheld in low light with a slow shutter and high ISO, the noise creeps in and sharpness suffers. But I don’t mind that. Precision wasn’t the priority here. What I wanted was to capture a trace of stillness in motion, a…
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Aficionados
Shot at an hour when most are just negotiating their first coffee, this photograph captures what, for these men, seems like the golden hour of routine. The scene is lit by a low, uncompromising sun that slices across the facade with sharp clarity—rendering the textures of worn plaster, metal shutters, and red plastic chairs with the honesty of an observational sketch. I was drawn to this configuration because it needed no orchestration. It was already a tableau: three men, frontally exposed, anchored by Peroni-branded chairs, embodying a choreography of idleness. The fourth, half-turned with one leg outstretched and a cap shielding his gaze, punctuates the composition with a visual counter-rhythm.…
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A Little Of Thailand In Rome
Walking through Rome, it’s always the unexpected juxtapositions that stop me in my tracks. This small corner, framed by a weathered marble wall on one side and the muted sheen of a modern doorway on the other, holds a Thai welcome — a statue draped in marigold garlands, hands pressed together in the wai greeting, a silent gesture of hospitality transplanted far from its native home. From a compositional standpoint, I went for a straightforward, vertical framing to preserve the integrity of the statue’s posture. The side table in the lower right, with its offering of flowers and folded leaf packages, gives a cultural context that anchors the image. The…
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The Actor’s Nightmare
The light was soft, early evening. A lounge in perfect order—chairs aligned, menus standing, ashtrays clean. Everything ready for guests who haven’t arrived. Or maybe they already left. On the wall, a screen glows dimly. A face caught in grainy black and white, paused mid-thought. An actor from some old film, eyes fixed just off-centre. And here’s the strange thing: it looks like he’s watching the room. Looking straight at the empty chairs. That was the moment I took the frame. Not because the interior was elegant, though it was. Not because the light was dramatic, though it helped. But because the whole space felt like a stage no one…
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An Evening Chat
The heat is unbearable in the evening of summer, but it doesn’t stop people from enjoying the outdoor nightlife.
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Self-Defense
Three against one…
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Portrait of a Waiter
Another day is going to start, and the ashtrays are ready to filled by the deadly dust…
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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. Shot handheld, early light bleeding in from camera right. The street’s been emptied of narrative clutter—no cars, no movement, just the woman mid-bend, transferring waste from broom to bag. It’s not staged. She didn’t know I was there. I waited until her back arched into that angle, arms extended, the brush and dustpan forming a triangle at ground level. The framing is offset deliberately. She occupies the lower right quadrant. The left side is held empty—just shuttered shopfronts and a corridor of fading lines. This void gives her effort weight.…
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The Barber’s Routine
The barber and the client had clearly known each other for years; the conversation between them was quiet, unhurried, and occasionally punctuated by comfortable pauses. I didn’t interrupt or ask them to acknowledge the camera. I simply observed.
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The Smoker’s Golden Rule: A Coffee Always Calls a Cigarette
There is something about certain rituals that photography seems almost predestined to document — moments that are less about the act itself and more about the pause in which it occurs. This image sits firmly in that territory. From a compositional perspective, the frame is constructed to let the viewer’s eye drift from one key element to another: the coffee cup, the ashtray, the faint tendrils of smoke, and perhaps even the hinted presence of the smoker just outside of view. The narrative is implicit; we know what is happening without needing to see it. This is the strength of suggestive framing — it trusts the audience to fill in…
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Diner After the Show
Thank god there’s still a way to get some food, even at late night…
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The Smoke Teacher
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Red Storm
I took this photo without raising the camera to my eye, resting it against the back of a chair to avoid breaking the rhythm of the scene. The room was full — women mostly, all dressed for the occasion, voices layered like overlapping melodies, echoing off red tablecloths and gold-framed mirrors. At the centre of it, this woman in a storm of colour. Her jumper caught the light — green, crimson, black — like a weather system of yarn. I didn’t need to see her face. Her hand told the story. The composition is crowded, intentionally so. No negative space, no clean lines, just immersion. You’re pulled into the middle…
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The Restorer’s Nest
Bringing back to life what was nearly lost
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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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Restaurant or Hellgate?
I took this frame in passing — late, tired, camera already packed away, then unpacked again. The corridor drew me in. Or rather, the light did. That deep red glow — not warm, not inviting, but saturated and theatrical — pooling like blood on the chequered floor. At the end of the tunnel: a door, closed, with a neon sign above it that read “Ristorante.” The most ordinary word, rendered as a challenge. This isn’t a photo of a restaurant. It’s a photo of a threshold. Of ambiguity. Maybe of dread. The darkness at the sides, broken only by the faint reflections in glass and stone, keeps the eye centred.…
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Nightlife
