Inside the Nazario Sauro

Looking through a watertight bulkhead of the Nazario Sauro, the cold geometry of war endures in steel, cables, dials and cathode-ray screens. The composition is structured by layers: iron framing, claustrophobic corridors, an old radar glowing faintly in the dark. Emptiness fills the frame, and yet it speaks of presence. Of watchfulness. Of command.

There are no people here—only ghosts of orders barked, bearings plotted, torpedoes primed. Everything is still, museum-still. But the submarine’s essence hasn’t retired. Its mass, its function, its purpose remain engraved in the very angles and wires now dormant.

A chair sits in front of the radar—straight, waiting, unoccupied. It could be yesterday, or seventy years ago. Memory and machinery cohabit in silence.

This photograph is not romantic. It is factual. Functional. Like the vessel itself. And yet, in its gaze through layers of engineered confinement, it opens a space for reflection. On conflict. On history. On the quiet tension between killing machine and commemorative artefact.

To photograph a place like this is not merely to record. It is to step into a sealed compartment of the 20th century and feel the pressure rise again.