Open to the sky

Some windows open inward, and others open to the sky as if they needed to breathe. 

Like this one, found in Giovinazzo, nestled among pale stones and familiar silences.

It doesn’t seem to look at anything in particular — and precisely for that reason, it lets everything pass through. Its green shutters, unfolded like light wings, seem to reach out toward something that can’t quite be grasped. Maybe the wind, or a memory that drifts by and then vanishes.

The sky behind is spotless, cloudless, storyless. And yet — it tells so much. It speaks of slow days, of footsteps that know every stone on the path, of summers that never really end.

In Giovinazzo, every corner offers me something.

Sometimes it's a memory, other times just a fleeting sensation, like the nostalgia for something that was never truly lost. In these moments, time slows down, narrows, and I remain still - suspended between the sound of the sea and the silence of an open window.

Perhaps that’s what I seek when I photograph: not the perfect image, but a narrow crack in the present, a passage where the light of something deeply known can slip through.

Some tracks are not just heard — they're inhabited. 

“Echoes” is one of them. A slow breath stretching through space, an underground current rising gradually into light.

This version, performed live among the ancient stones of Pompeii, without an audience, is timeless. The natural echo, the sun filtering through ruins, the musicians' freedom—everything adds depth and silence.

Technically born from a single “ping” on Richard Wright’s piano, manipulated through echo and delay,

the piece builds through overlapping bass lines, guitars, drums and voices until it becomes an ever-shifting sonic landscape.

“Echoes” doesn’t narrate - it evokes.

It’s not a song, but a place: one where listening becomes wandering. A perfect companion for a gaze lost between sky and memory.