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Conversation
In a gallery, the art is never just on the walls. It spills into the spaces between people, into the exchanges and body language of those who come to see it. This frame was taken in such a moment — a candid intersection between two visitors, locked in a discussion that seemed as textured and layered as the paintings around them. I placed them in the foreground, letting the shallow depth of field push the artworks into a soft blur. The defocus serves two purposes: it keeps the viewers’ attention on the pair, and it transforms the background into a muted, abstract backdrop — just enough to hint at the…
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Yin and Yang
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The Empty Stage
There’s a stillness in this image that’s almost unnerving — the kind of stillness you find after the audience has gone home, the performers have left, and the sea has reclaimed the soundscape. The photograph presents what looks like a small, weather-worn platform facing the horizon, its rusted surface marked by time and salt. In front of it, the patterned paving stones draw the eye directly forward, as though you’re being ushered to take your place before the infinite backdrop of sky and water. Compositionally, the image is disciplined and symmetrical without feeling sterile. The vanishing lines of the pavement and the horizon are set dead-centre, pulling you into the…
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Clandestine Seagull
I took this photograph in the harbour, late in the afternoon when the light had already started to fade into that bluish, uncertain zone. The boat was clearly not preparing to set sail, yet there was this lone seagull perched as if ready for departure, almost waiting for a conductor to come and check its ticket. That hint of anthropomorphic humour is what made me stop and press the shutter. Compositionally, the bird sits roughly on the intersection of thirds, naturally drawing the eye amid the clutter of fishing gear, ropes, and rust. The machinery around it frames the subject without enclosing it, lending a sense of depth and context.…
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Wrecked Ship
There’s a heaviness to this photograph, not just in the physical mass of the vessel but in the sense of time etched into its surface. The frame is filled almost entirely by the side of the wreck, the wood weathered to grey and streaked with rust-red, algae-green, and salt-white. The colours are muted but carry a richness born of decay — pigments laid down not by brush but by years of exposure, water, and neglect. From a compositional standpoint, the choice to exclude the horizon and most of the surrounding context forces the viewer to confront the ship as an object, almost abstract in its texture. The eye moves along…
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A Sailor’s Knot
I was drawn to this image for the way it captures the physicality of work at sea without showing the sea itself. The coiled rope, weathered and darkened, sits heavy against the chipped paint and rust stains of the boat’s surface. The knot is both functional and sculptural — a product of necessity rather than ornament — yet it commands its place in the frame with the authority of an intentional design. From a compositional standpoint, the photograph relies on a strong division between planes. The horizontal band of the boat’s edge anchors the top third, while the ropes cut diagonally through the frame, breaking the stillness. This interplay of…
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Portrait of an Heavy Metal Singer
Devilish, isn’t it?
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The Traffic Controller
The man in the reflective uniform wasn’t posing, wasn’t waiting. He was simply doing his job — coordinating chaos with the quiet authority only experience provides. The scene unfolded quickly: the fire brigade’s crane on standby, the red and blue lights diffused by daylight, the line of hesitant cars waiting for a signal that only one person could give. I didn’t have much time to frame this; sometimes a good photograph is more a matter of presence than planning. I shot slightly underexposed to preserve the detail in the brighter areas of the sky and keep the colour temperature cool and flat, emphasising the mundane over the dramatic. Compositionally, the…
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Portrait of a Bailaor
It’s not the dance itself. Not the movement. Not the raised heel or arched arm. It’s the moment in between. I took this portrait during a flamenco performance—close up, no motion blur, no sweeping gesture. Just a still frame of pure tension. The bailaor had just stepped out of a phrase. His hair wet from exertion, shirt unbuttoned from heat. He was motionless, but the intensity hadn’t left. It was gathering. What struck me wasn’t the obvious theatricality. It was the way his focus seemed to cut straight through the light. His jaw tight, eyes narrowed, not toward the crowd, but somewhere inward. Flamenco isn’t about smiling through the steps. It’s about…
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A Couch in the Yard
When the winter falls, a lonely couch only hosts a few leaves.
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An Altar for the Propaganda Machine
A powerful weapon, that equally served the good and the evil. I centred the composition with purpose. The typewriter is the object of worship—flanked symmetrically by twin candelabras, topped by a crude wire-and-canvas sketch. Every element builds the metaphor. This is not furniture. It’s altar, theatre, relic. The machine is a vintage Olivetti. The light picks out its curves softly from camera right, bouncing off the keys and reinforcing the tactile weight of metal. It’s flanked by yellow candles—unused, deliberately vertical, unnaturally pristine. The contrast isn’t subtle. Industrial memory and ornamental symbolism in rigid balance. Above it all, the artwork floats: childish, abstract, gestural. Possibly a bicycle, possibly nothing. I included it…
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Up Where the World Unfolds
Some things — and some beings — refuse to stay where they are expected. This small mushroom, instead of emerging humbly from the soil like its kin, chose a perch on a weathered branch, lifted just high enough to see more of the world. I don’t know if fungi can be ambitious, but the sight of it certainly suggested a story of quiet defiance. I positioned the camera so the log would slice horizontally through the frame, letting the mushroom rise like a solitary sentinel against the blurred green backdrop. The shallow depth of field was essential here: it isolates the subject while allowing the texture of the bark and…
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Common Fate
There is a certain poetry in abandonment, a quiet narrative that emerges when objects, once part of daily life, are left to weather the seasons. Here, a potted plant—its container fractured but still holding its fragile inhabitant—leans against the white planks of a wall. Beside it, an old wooden chair, tipped forward, legs worn and uneven, stands as if caught mid-fall. Both share the same exile: placed outdoors, exposed to the damp green creep of moss and the chill of winter air. Their once-practical roles—providing comfort, holding life—have shifted into symbols of transience. The wood of the chair, scarred by years of use, echoes the plant’s brittle stems. Each has…
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Portrait of a Judo Master
The heritage of Kano Jigoro is still alive.
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A Splash of Colour
This shot came out of instinct more than planning. A night downpour had just passed, the roads were still gleaming, and I caught the moment a car ploughed through a puddle like it was carving a wound into the street. The camera barely kept up. What emerged isn’t a photograph of a car, or a street, or even rain—but the collision of light, speed, and water at their most chaotic. From a technical standpoint, I wouldn’t call this “clean.” The headlights are blown to pure white. The motion blur—particularly on the car—is complete, to the point of abstraction. Detail is secondary, sacrificed to velocity. But for once, precision wasn’t the…
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Protezione Civile
Kudos to those who volunteer to help.
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Night Shift At The Gas Station
The cold was real. It soaked through the synthetic layers, condensed on every metal surface, and wrapped this frame in its own damp silence. What drew me to release the shutter wasn’t the uniform or the pump, but the stillness — a kind of pause in the machinery of necessity. This man, anonymous but emblematic, stood under the artificial glow of sodium light, framed by geometry and function. Technically, this isn’t a sharp image — and I’m glad it’s not. The slight blur works to its advantage, echoing the condensation on the glass through which I shot, or maybe just the fatigue of a night too long. The colours, though,…
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An illuminated escape path will help you to reach the exits …
Not only when airborne.
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Meaningless
Sometimes it’s easier to tell what a photograph is not than to explain what it is. This frame, taken outside a small tabaccheria, is a case in point. It’s not sharp — the slight blur suggests either a slow shutter speed with handheld movement or an unintentional misfocus. It’s not correctly exposed either — the bright areas, particularly the pavement and parts of the foliage, are overexposed, washing out detail and flattening the scene. Compositionally, it struggles to find an anchor. The woman in the doorway and the man at the vending machine might form the core of a story, but the foreground foliage, tilted horizon, and lack of depth…
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A comfortable chair
Well … maybe.
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Is the next Kano Jigoro already on the mat?
Somewhere in the world, maybe the next Kano Jigoro is just born. The frame is anchored by the portrait of Kano Jigoro, fixed above a rack of wooden weapons and a block wall of glass bricks. Everything above the tatami is controlled: symmetry, rhythm, grid. But the eye falls to the disorder below—the untied belts sprawled across the floor, soft, irregular, human. I kept the shot wide to preserve the negative space. The belts are deliberately small in the frame. Their scale reflects their role: potential, not yet formed. They interrupt the formality of the upper half, resisting the architecture with an echo of movement. They’re not discarded. They’ve been used. Light…
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Under the Bridge
Here I am again with a video…
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Fishermen in Rome, Again
There’s no better way to enjoy a sunny day in Rome. The photograph opens with three figures at the river’s edge, their backs turned to the viewer, their attention fixed on the slow, opaque flow of the Tiber. The morning light is soft but clear, stretching shadows across the worn concrete embankment. Fishing rods angle out over the water, each line vanishing into the muted surface where the river holds its secrets. The composition is deliberate in its restraint. By placing the subjects with their faces hidden, the image shifts focus from identity to posture. Each fisherman holds a distinct physical rhythm: the man in the green jacket standing upright, central…
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The Rise of the Mutant Spiders?
