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, and a background that’s little more than a black curtain, cables, and equipment. In these circumstances, composition becomes less about placing subjects in a clean environment and more about accepting the clutter as part of the story. The amps, the drum kit, and the tangle of wires form a natural frame — an honest portrait of a working musician, not a posed studio fantasy.

Technically, the exposure leans slightly towards the bright side, with Roberto’s red shirt dominating the visual weight of the frame. That same shirt, though, gives life to the otherwise subdued colour palette, with the Les Paul’s warm burst finish picking up and echoing those reds and golds beautifully. Depth of field is shallow enough to isolate him from the background, but not so much that the setting disappears entirely — a good compromise for context.

His expression is relaxed, perhaps even mildly amused, as if both aware of and indifferent to the fact that this is a moment being documented. It’s a far cry from the sharper, more angular visual of him ten years ago. The guitar has changed, the years have passed, but the player — the musician beneath the instrument — is still very much the same.