Between the 1980s and 1990s, I traversed the length and breadth of India, Indonesia, Cambodia, Laos, without ever giving up my Leica. A gift from my father, indeed a “loan,” as he pointed out, even though we both knew I would never give it back to him. Not only did I not give it back to him, I did worse. At one point, enticed by the lure of digital photography, I sold Dad's camera. Only to buy back the same model (a Leicaflex SL) decades later and start using it again. Another of my father's cameras, which I did not take on trips because I was afraid of losing it, was a Hasselblad 500. Also at some point sold. And recently bought back, to repair the great wrong I had done to it. And that I had done to myself.

In my imagination, photography is linked to the mysterious movement of gears, the click of the shutter, the magic of lenses to be mounted, changed, cared for as if they were lovers. The camera is, in Italian, feminine. I realize that, seen through today's eyes, these images savor of the past. And of machismo. But it is one thing to reflect, in retrospect, on the stereotypes of masculinity of the old days. And it is quite another thing to caress a camera, to hold it in your hand, to make love to it,

and not even that metaphorically.

From this love my photographs are born. And also from a further one, of love. That for my wife Silvana, my only, wonderful, model, provided she is willing to let herself be photographed.

Those who always willingly let themselves be photographed

are the cities in which I live.

Berlin is a provocative, aggressive, sometimes somber,

never banal model.

Milan does not disfigure in the comparison, although it is more petite, polite, refined. If you court her a little, you will see how sensual she becomes.

Those who browse through my photos can tell right away. I like colors, and I love to change them, to tack them, to twist them. My photos alter themselves. I discover them, scrutinize them, ponder them, as one reflects on dreams, when one barely remembers them, just waking up. What did I dream, really, I ask myself, and meanwhile the apparitions fade away. What have I photographed, really, I wonder, as I watch the colors of the world, of cities, of faces, melting faster than reflections on the water of a lake.