It was some kind of euphoria that made us feel a bit like gold miners. We wanted more, and more, and more. It really seemed that every mile we trod, the best wonders were still to come. Where one lake ended, another one would start. So we ended up at Wanaka lake and we knew about this famous tree growing in the water, but we didn’t know where it was.
The music of a piano led us to it. A young man was playing a real piano just in front of the tree, on the lakeshore, almost on the water. It was unreal, even now, when I think about it, I wonder if it was a dream. Ah… sometimes music is enough to take you far away! Wanaka was the first urban center we found, a small but very lively town. Continue Reading
The other day, between dust, mosquitoes and the noise of the sander I was using to plane the wood of our new boat – wait, I’ll tell you more about that later -, I thought about many things.
Maybe it sounds weird, but I don’t remember the last time I had time for surfing through my thoughts. Probably sometimes we really need to let ourselves do some manual work – something purely mechanical, in order to become estranged from the world for a while, just to follow your flow of thoughts like moths toward the flame. Continue Reading
It was on the overnight bus that took me from Canberra to Sydney’s Airport that I felt the butterflies in the stomach and the thrill on the neck I know so well.
You might think that it was due to the obscene amount of Vietnamese food I had eaten just before, but it wasn’t.
I know that torrent of blocked words, ready to go out wild and whirling, as soon as I find a pen. Never write in that state, I luckily remembered it.
I left the city running through the bus window, while the night took me away, even further away, closer to the land of my dreams: New Zealand.
In that state of alienation I completely left this world to wander through my thoughts, where I found a lot of images that instead I haven’t been able to re-find in my camera. All the best things are locked in my mind, as always. Continue Reading
When this moment comes, in front of the white sheet, the first few lines are always the most difficult to write. Thoughts go in and out so fast that I don’t know how to stop them.
Have I been in Australia for real? I have some photos… but, what’s Photography? Is it really a trace of reality?
My University years come back to mind, when the debate about the controversial matter on the relation between reality and photography seemed endless, and it still is.
Susan Sontag said that photos are truthful because they look like something real, but at the same time they are fake because they can only be a resemblance of it. Yet, these photographs, tell me “that has been” .. and that’s all one needs. Continue Reading
DAY 4 – RøROS TRIP + BEST DAY EVER AT THE SPA We wake up early very excited for our small trip of a couple of days to Roros, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
We catch the train in the morning while it is starting to snow slightly, and for about two hours we go through some of the most beautiful snowy landscapes I have ever seen. Continue Reading
My friend Renata and I have met for the first time one year ago. It has been special, one of those meetings which remain in history. Among billions of steps that every year consume the stones of Venice, even ours crossed there, towards the beginning of the autumn.
It was strange and surreal, we barely knew each other, but we were already old friends – in that mysterious way that connects people before they even meet.
Renata arrived treading lightly and with a light backpack on her shoulders, bringing with her the colors of the big North into her bright eyes, blue like Norvegian sea.
‘Come to visit me in Norway’ she said as she was leaving to backpack through Tuscany, after having stayed a week with me in Venice. And I went. Continue Reading
I wrote and erased my sensational opening sentence for this post at least some fifteen times before going out for a walk among the deserted heaths of my small town, which lead to the Venetian lagoon in an endless landscape of “barene” (marshes).
The Venetian countryside seems tired, consumed by the cyclical seasons of intensive seedtime and harvest, that turn these lands in a flat sequence of orderly fields.
While I am looking at the first ploughs working the loamy ground, so gray after the long winter, I think about the differences between this landscape and the soft hills of Tuscany, where the old olive trees stretch as far as the eye can see, till the blue line of the sea. Continue Reading
Charles de Gaulle Etoile underground stop, a young girl with long reddish hair and sleepy eyes sits in front of me: a “typical Parisian beauty”, I think. But how can we define a Parisian beauty? Is it because she seems to come out of a painting? Whose painting? In my arts archive I see Toulouse Lautrec’s, Tissot’s, Renoir’s women, but also Suzanne Valadon’s, Atget’s photographic portraits, Paris at the end of the 19th century.
[This post was made in collaboration with Amio (you can find this recipe here!) and my friend Eugenio Marongiu who took the pictures in Venice! ]
If you leave a continuous stream of steps behind, after a dark sottoportico the road stretches silently. Just a little further, in a small courtyard, there is an old door – like many others in Venice – with a set of brass bells at the side.
Inside, on the upper floor, the rooms are well divided, like they always are in the noblest palaces: a wide entrance at the centre and well distributed rooms at the two main sides.
The shape of furniture has left its mark on the brightly colored walls – Pompeian red and dark viridian to reclaim nobility – as if someone traced it to remember it. But the apartment is empty: only a wooden table – bright green, as well – has remained in the small kitchen. It was surely left there because it was not so precious. Continue Reading
[ *This recipe was made in collaboration with Amio pulses, you can read it even HERE, along with many other recipes made by me, Giulia and Valentina! ]
Early morning, almost dawn. I put on my rubber boots and, after a few steps, I turn right. It seems to be raining but it is only very wet. I cross the bridge over the canal which is lined by dark, too severe magnolias. The great gate is always open: it is a passage for the peasants working in the neighboring fields. There used to be a forest here – they told me – where famous people like Hemingway went hunting. Passing through that gate is like receiving a special permit to enter another time, for me. A double line of century-old poplars draws a long avenue and allows us only a glimpse of the central part of a big 18th century villa. There are wide untilled spaces which are kept as garden. The tall trees make boundaries disappear. Continue Reading