On the train - Life as it passes

The simplicity and minimalism of certain compositions, the quiet power of a red filter placed in front of a lens.

People often laugh when I say I enjoy traveling by train. We live in a culture of the NOW (or even YESTERDAY), where everything is compressed and accelerated, and we are slowly unlearning how to experience time itself.
For me, trains do the opposite. They restore a sense of distance and duration. They create a space where I can simply look out of the window and let thoughts drift, where observation becomes a natural form of reflection and, inevitably, a source of work.

Of course, this is usually accompanied by a good (bad), absurdly expensive coffee kindly not sponsored by the onboard bar.

Beyond that, trains are also an extraordinary study of human behaviour: postures, rhythms, clothing, micro-gestures, even the poetry of people trying (and failing) to sleep comfortably. A moving laboratory for quick gesture drawing and for quietly observing
life as it passes.

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Somewhere in Arles, late afternoon…

In the south of France, the late afternoon light set the stage for a little story.

I saw this little girl standing quietly at the window of an old building, looking out into the street below. She seemed soo small inside the large frame, with her little tiny cute face emerging in the light.
She seemed almost swallowed by the darkness of the room behind her.
While immediately taking my camera, that old heavy amazing Canon body and lens ( which is part of history now) I kept wondering why she was alone. Was she waiting for her parents to come home ?
watching the street pass slowly beneath her, listening for familiar footsteps or distant voices ?

What unsettled me most was the broken glass in the window. It changed the feeling of the scene completely. Suddenly the image no longer felt only quiet or cinematic, but fragile. Unsafe, somehow.
I kept wondering. I kept clicking.
are you safe there?

It was obviously all in my head, but I could not stop thinking about how sometimes a photograph captures more than a moment. Sometimes it sparks a small story that stays with you long after you’ve walked away.

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Sketchbook #157

Pages from my sketchbook, places.

Sometimes I’m lucky enough to find myself alone in a place I like, without distractions or family around. Those moments are ideal for starting a quick on-location sketch: improvised, direct, and rarely good :) or fully “finished” state (what does “finished” even mean for a sketch?).

Other times I’ll just capture the spirit of a place through a few lines and shapes, and bring a photo back to the studio to further refine — or, more honestly, to reinterpret and push it a bit further. Some of these pages also include studies from master works;
I often alternate between studying from others and drawing from observation, with the aim of absorbing what I learn and re-expressing it through my own hand. Much simpler said than done… but we’re still here.

Sketchbook #72 - Gouache and my bad brain

I think one of the main obstacles in art — at least in the way I experienced it — is the overwhelming number of tools available, and how collecting fine art materials can easily become a real addiction.

Experimentation is important, of course. It’s part of finding what resonates with you, discovering your preferences, and slowly developing your own visual language. But I also realized that, for me, it often became a form of procrastination.
We are constantly bombarded by advertisements and exposed online to incredible artists creating extraordinary work with every possible tool imaginable. It becomes easy to believe that by buying the same materials, somehow we might also become capable of producing the same kind of work.

That is insecurity speaking — the quiet voice convincing you that the next tool will finally unlock something in you.
For a long time, I believed it over and over again.
So I accumulated enough materials to fill an entire store, only to slowly realize how deceptive that mindset could be. Little by little, I began reducing my tools drastically and focusing instead on process, repetition, and attention.

There was also a period in the past when I experimented extensively with gouache and watercolor. These are some very old studies from life or masters — the few that, as usual, did not end up in the fireplace…. imagine the others….

Elena - a few shots

I do not generally do portraits but sometimes, with the right subject, it’s good to stop, look, think and enjoy the beauty of light and people.

Good memories of my years in New York, and what this beautiful city brought and represented in my life.

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Notre Dame

I still find myself stopping in front of Notre Dame quite often.

I’m lucky to pass by it regularly, and each time it feels slightly different — the light, the atmosphere, the rhythm of the crowd moving around it.

Sometimes I just look for a moment, sometimes it turns into a quick sketch or a couple of black and white photos.

It’s one of those places that quietly pulls you in without asking for attention.

Lines, Notes, Fragments

Drawing, music and photography have always been connected in my life, even when they seemed far apart.

Now more than ever, I feel the need for fewer tools, slower work, and more focused attention.

A pencil moving across paper.
Printed photographs in my hands.
Piano keys and synthesizers shaping the atmosphere of my journey.

Nothing can replace the physical gesture, imperfections, and a human rhythm.

I want to protect space for observation, solitude, and intentional work.

A slower process.
A more human one.

Lines, Notes, Fragments