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A Vessel
I’ve always found that photographing boats is an exercise in balance—between structure and fluidity, between the hard geometry of rigging and the soft, shifting water beneath. This image leans into that duality beautifully. The yacht sits clean and confident in the frame, its hull catching the light in a way that reveals every subtle curve, while the fenders hang like punctuation marks, breaking up the strong horizontal line of the deck. Shot in black and white, the absence of colour shifts the viewer’s attention to texture and tonal separation. The polished deck, taut ropes, and the soft reflections in the harbour water each have their own surface quality. The exposure…
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Cold Stuff
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A Modern Orpheus
Shot in a southern Italian city on a humid evening, this frame owes as much to the ambient noise as it does to light. The man with the guitar wasn’t playing to be heard. He was playing because he had to—sitting on his amp, cables like roots spilling out beneath him. What I saw through the viewfinder was not a performer, but a figure entirely absorbed, distanced from the crowd that had only half noticed he was even there. The Orphic analogy came naturally—not out of romanticism, but necessity. Like the myth, he’s turned away from the world, pleading into the void for something irretrievable. His face is hidden, not…
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RedLight
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Ray-Ban in Milan
It’s not just about what sits on the roof—it’s about what it says without blinking. Shot in the heart of Milan, this image captures a building that has seen eras come and go, crowned by a brand that has spent decades convincing the world to look cool while blocking out the light. The lettering floats above the stone like graffiti gentrified by permanence. I framed the photo dead-on, as if to let the architecture and the logo negotiate their own contrast. The façade is neoclassical, orderly, almost too proud to wear an ad. But there it is—Ray-Ban—scribbled in neon above cornices and keystones, as defiant as it is inevitable. Black…
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Shaken
The frame is a study in disarray — not in subject matter alone, but in its very execution. The scene, taken on a busy street, is blurred throughout: the figures, the car, the elegant repetition of arches behind them. Whether caused by an unsteady hand, a slow shutter, or a deliberate choice, the result is an image where nothing stands still enough to become the focal point. Two figures anchor the composition: one in the foreground to the left, caught mid-turn, the other to the right, hunched over something in his hands. Their outlines dissolve into the tonal softness, denying the viewer access to facial expression or fine detail. The…
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A Waiter in via Sardegna
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Balilla
Some cars don’t just roll into view—they make an entrance. This Fiat Balilla, polished to the kind of deep red you only get from decades of careful ownership, sits dead-centre in the frame as if the entire piazza has been rearranged to suit it. The symmetry is irresistible: the grille’s vertical bars, the balanced curve of the wings, the twin headlamps gleaming like theatre spotlights. CompositionFraming here is deliberate and effective. The Balilla claims the central axis, with bright orange crowd-control barriers creating a vivid frame-within-a-frame. The people behind form a secondary layer, offering scale and a sense of place without competing for attention. It’s an image that works because…
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Pensive
This black-and-white image, taken along the riverside steps in Paris, captures the quiet weight of stillness against a backdrop of movement. At the centre of the frame sits a lone figure, their silhouette defined against the lighter tones of the water. They face away from the crowd, turned toward the river’s shifting surface, embodying a pause in a city otherwise in motion. CompositionThe most compelling element of this photograph is its use of leading lines. The sweeping curve of the steps pulls the eye from the lower right of the frame directly toward the seated figure, and then out toward the distant pedestrians. This arc not only structures the scene…
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Under the Arc of the Seine
Paris has a way of revealing its geometry to those who care to look. This photograph, taken from the cobblestone banks of the Seine, uses the underside of a bridge as a natural proscenium arch. The frame it creates is both literal and compositional, guiding the viewer’s gaze toward the urban stage beyond. The sweep of the bridge’s curve is echoed by the concentric stone steps leading down to the water, while the horizontal layers of the background—trees, buildings, roadway—add a pleasing counterbalance to the strong arc. From a technical perspective, the choice of black and white serves the image well. Stripping away colour emphasises the interplay of lines, curves,…
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Stinky Shoes
I didn’t stage the boots. They were already there — resting, waiting, perhaps forgotten. Red leather, worn smooth at the toes, zipped and upright like sentries. The scene caught my eye not because of the shoes themselves, but because of their place within this cage of repetition: iron grille, mesh netting, and behind it all, the geometry of a city reflected in the glass. The photograph rests on layers. Foreground: a net that seems both to protect and to obscure. Midground: the wrought iron, rusted and ornate, Victorian in its stubborn elegance. Background: the shoes. And beyond them, windows reflecting windows. This multiplicity of frames becomes the structure of the…
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Access Denied
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Floating Flower
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Desolation
I remember standing at the entrance of this narrow underpass, camera in hand, struck by the oppressive stillness. The word “desolation” seemed to settle in my mind even before I pressed the shutter. There was no movement, no sign of life, only the faint echo of my own footsteps on the tiles. The composition is built on geometry and confinement. The corridor acts like a visual funnel, guiding the eye towards the back courtyard and the blank, closed garage doors. The graffiti scrawled on both walls interrupts the symmetry just enough to add texture and a hint of human presence — though not the kind that enlivens a space. The…
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Trespassed
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Springtime
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Where Did I Left My Car?
When I framed “Where Did I Left My Car”, I was chasing absence, presence, and the city’s quiet accusation. I recall stepping into a narrow lane, scanning facades, light and shadow, empty spots. I trained the lens not on what was there, but on what was not. The void became subject. I waited until all cars had passed, until the frame was emptied. Then I held the shutter, letting the urban grid, the lines of curb, doorways, and windows become witnesses. The emptiness sits heavy, like a question mark in concrete. I chose a vantage point slightly off-centre. The negative space on one side is meant to feel unbalanced—echoing the unease…
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Justice Under Construction
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Stripes of Light and Decay
Shot just after sunset, this image pivots on contrast—between elevation and erosion, movement and stillness, designed flow and neglect. The high-speed overpass above, lit with sodium arcs, forms an uninterrupted stream of engineered repetition. Below, the descending ramp is paved with crooked bricks, softened by moss and time, sloping into a dim alley where parked cars and old plaster tell a slower story. I waited for the last of the ambient light to thin out before releasing the shutter. The idea was to balance the residual blue of the sky with the warmer artificial tones bleeding off the lamps and roadways. Technically, it’s not pristine. There’s a softness in the…
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Run Like Hell, Pinocchio!
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Merleria Livia
Some signs don’t light up the street—they anchor it. This one simply says “MERLERIA LIVIA,” glowing white against the black. Not neon, not flashy. Just enough light to find your way back to something ordinary. Useful. Forgotten. Shot on a rainy night, the kind that turns every surface into a mirror. The pavement reflects the streetlamps like a memory trying to stay present. A man walks slowly, slightly hunched—not from age, maybe just the weather. Hands in pockets, coat zipped. Nothing urgent, nothing staged. The shop is closed. You can feel it. The shutters are down, but the sign is still doing its job. Reminding anyone passing that once, not…
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Open Window
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Wire Stylist
When I photographed “Wire Stylist”, I was struck by the absurd elegance of decay — a rusted doorbell, its wires splayed like an eccentric haircut. The scene felt alive without life, playful and tragic in the same breath. It wasn’t planned. I noticed it while walking past an old building, the kind of wall that’s been painted too many times and forgotten once too often. The exposed wires twisted outward in chaotic curls, catching light in a way that almost mocked order. The eccentric “hair” needed asymmetry to feel spontaneous. Straightening the shot would have sterilised the humour. I left slight tilt and irregular framing to preserve its found quality.
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Pillars
