Scarpette rosse

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My room. Shadows until darkness. A screen for viewing hours of film and a challenge: never press the “pause” button. Thus the films of my life have become a story of my soul. Portrait of family women, mine, the story of many. A visual mosaic of fears, anxieties, rips, secrets, desires, conditionings. Maybe this work is useful only for me. Or maybe not. Because as heavy as the inherited burden is, destiny is a choice, “he shuffles the cards and we play them”.

I stand in the ring
in the dead city
and tie on the red shoes.
They are not mine.
They are my mother’s.
Her mother’s before.
Handed down like an heirloom
but hidden like shameful letters.
The house and the street where they belong
are hidden and all the women, too,
are hidden.
(Anne Sexton)


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The green and blue Abruzzo is silently but quickly turning into the black Abruzzo.

Black oil, because here even the king of hydrocarbons is darker and more viscous than anywhere else.

The oil industry has always nourished legends of collective wealth, while the true goal is the careless exploitation of lands for the profit of the few.

The impossible cohabitation of oil platforms, refineries, overflows, rows of grapevines and olive trees. To the compliant indifference of those who continue to stroll along the beach and pretend they don’t see, there is self-censure and denial, against all evidence.

These photos aim to show the image of a heart-felt, lucid cry of alarm, testimony of the violence to the atmosphere and health, a warning about powerful invaders (the space invaders of a famous electronic game from the 80’s), lacking humanity and scruples.

An extreme warning to safeguard beauty, the sole true source of progress and civilisation.

A moment before the words GAME OVER appear on the screen and the horizon, saturated with drills and desulphurizers.


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Homage to Edward Hopper

A mosquito always bites us when we are in front of work of art, which starts itching insistently when we are back home. I asked several women to choose one of Hopper’s paintings and tell me where the itch came from. Then I took photos.

Bite is work going on…

Holy Fashion Week

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Holy Fashion Week


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If I could live again my life,
In the next – I’ll try,
– to make more mistakes,
I won’t try to be so perfect,
I’ll be more relaxed,
I’ll be more full – than I am now,
In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously,
I’ll be less hygenic,
I’ll take more risks,
I’ll take more trips,
I’ll watch more sunsets,
I’ll climb more mountains,
I’ll swim more rivers,
I’ll go to more places – I’ve never been,
I’ll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,
I’ll have more real problems – and less imaginary
I was one of those people who live
prudent and prolific lives –
each minute of his life,
Offcourse that I had moments of joy  – but,
if I could go back I’ll try to have only good moments,

If you don’t know – thats what life is made of,
Don’t lose the now!
I was one of those who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
and without an umberella and without a parachute,

If I could live again – I will travel light,
If I could live again – I’ll try to work bare feet
at the beginning of spring till
the end of autumn,
I’ll ride more carts,
I’ll watch more sunrises and play with more children,
If I have the life to live – but now I am 85,
– and I know that I am dying …

Jorge Louis Borges

Los ninos santos

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Los ninos santos

The Semana Santa (Holy Week) is the most important Spanish holiday, maybe even more so than Christmas. From Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, religious sentiment takes over the scene in Catholic Spain. It is a moment of great fervour and participation. In the city of Seville alone, Holy Thursday has nearly a million spectators.

I’ve seen them in the streets full of incense and litanies, behind carts rich with gold.

Resigned and intent.

Tired and sad.

Exploded in loud crying to remind everyone of their presence.

Set aside in a world of games and secret thoughts, where you invent a word and forget the rest.

And I’ve seen the curious stares, the pouting lips, the small hands tighten and turn themselves over trustingly.

It wasn’t my choice to take a photo, it was theirs.