The Silent Geometry of a Trabocco

This image came out of a walk I almost didn’t take. The light was beginning to fall into that uncertain hour, not quite golden but leaning into it, with a softness that flatters without deceiving. I was drawn to the trabocco — that wooden skeleton of fishing history jutting into the Adriatic like a forgotten broadcast antenna.

Technically, the image lives and breathes in its lines. Everything points outward — cables, poles, railings — a quiet explosion of geometry pushing against the calmness of the sea. The house, slightly off-centre, serves as a visual anchor, balancing the thrust of the lines while allowing the scene to feel alive, not over-symmetrical.

I exposed for the highlights, knowing that shadow detail wasn’t the story here. The rust, the peeling paint, the way the wood swells and sags in places — they all benefit from shadow. The clarity is sharp where it should be — around the main structure — but deliberately falls off toward the sea and horizon, letting the viewer feel the distance rather than analyse it.

Some might say the colours are too subdued. I’d argue they’re faithful. The Adriatic isn’t always blue; it often slips into steel and muted jade. I chose not to chase vibrance but stay with how it felt in that moment: calm, slightly cool, and utterly still.