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A Cornhole Board – Independence Day Edition
I took this photograph in Boston on July 4th, and for me, it captures a small but telling fragment of the day’s celebrations. No fireworks, no parade—just a simple cornhole board dressed in the American flag, surrounded by scattered red and blue beanbags on a sunlit brick pavement. It’s an image that speaks to the quieter, more tactile traditions that sit alongside the grand spectacle. Compositionally, I let the board occupy the upper right of the frame, its diagonal placement adding a sense of movement and inviting the viewer’s eye from the legs toward the target hole. The wooden box in the foreground balances the frame and anchors the bottom…
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Waiting For A Customer To Come
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The Spanish Sense of Flesh – 2
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The Spanish Sense of Flesh – 1
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Though Choice
It doesn’t take much to make your day happy.
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Square Three
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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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Late for Lunch
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Hard Choice In Quai de la Corse
I made this frame near Île de la Cité, on Quai de la Corse—one of those places where the mundane and the picturesque casually coexist. What first drew my attention wasn’t the postcard rack, but the slight choreography unfolding around it. Two figures—clearly together, maybe tourists or locals revisiting the familiar—stood split by the display, momentarily anonymised by a turnstile of nostalgia. That was the hook: a photo of people concealed by the very thing designed to represent their surroundings. The irony held my attention long enough to lift the camera. I composed the shot with that in mind. The vertical rack bisects the frame precisely, interrupting the couple’s presence…
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The Silent Listeners
Covent Garden, again. Like the music of Orpheus’Lyra, the voice of the singer brings back to life the lifeless mannequins.
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Christmas Time at Covent Garden
I caught this moment at Covent Garden during the run-up to Christmas—a place already soaked in atmosphere, now further steeped in the low murmur of seasonal anticipation. The light was dimming, not quite golden hour, but soft enough to let the scene breathe. Shot with the Leica M9, the CCD sensor rendered the colours with that particular tonal grit that makes digital files feel almost filmic. You can sense the density of the blacks without them ever falling into shadow-mud. What first caught my eye was the woman in the red coat. Not just the brightness of the garment—which naturally draws the eye—but the posture, the precise angle of the…
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Next, please!
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A Bitter Sweet
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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…
