The sun sets more slowly tonight, and there is a strange atmosphere outside our home. Everything seems suspended in a spreading emptiness—even the sunset appears to stand still. Its light permeates the streets, buildings, and balconies, penetrating windows to rest upon faces and objects like a patina that dulls all brilliance.
Consequently, as the air grows heavier, I look at my camera and decide to document the lockdown through an intimate visual investigation.
This became a photographic story of family quarantine. While probing into my new family routine, deep emotions, complex feelings, and unfamiliar faces emerge. Indeed, we are no longer the same. We do not know what awaits us, or how long this confinement will last, but we remain diligent. Meanwhile, even my children, so young, try to rebuild a new existence for themselves.
Little is said because fear hovers, and silence creeps into every corner of the city. Through the window glass, we catch fragments of a reality that no longer belongs to us. Therefore, the sun seems to have stopped. It remains there, in an eternal sunset that condemns us never to see a new dawn. Ultimately, we are all waiting.
In this space, I look for fragments of daily life and light. Yet, life goes on; I glimpse it in the online classes that Mario follows with absolute earnestness. A screen separates him from university life as he had imagined it. Thus, I watch him as he takes his second exam, wishing I could comfort him, wishing I could reassure him.
Furthermore, I move through the house with my camera, capturing lines of light, moments of tenderness, family intimacy, and anguish. Everything bends before the monster. We seem trapped in an eternal Sunday, but life continues within our home while we turn our gaze outside.
This project is about photography and intimacy, capturing a time suspended. For instance, we never go out except to get groceries; Rosa’s eyes, visible above her face mask, speak to me. We do not need to say certain things out loud because I can read in her eyes how deeply anxiety is consuming her.
And here we are again, on hold. For the umpteenth time we are unprepared—intensive care units are overflowing, infection curves are rising, and we are still here, waiting. Yet, within this suspension, daily chores interweave with old traditions waiting to be dusted off.
Surprisingly, Grazia has never kneaded dough before. She timidly asks Rosa to teach her how to bake bread, and mother and daughter look so complicit in this sacred process of breadmaking. In addition, we fill the rooms with moments—with what we could have done and what we keep doing—trying to overcome the fear and the sense of suffocation that sometimes oppresses us.
A different Easter arrives, reminding us of waiting for a new dawn. Holy Easter is also an occasion to celebrate our family, and everything seems ready, but pieces are missing. That table stops short; it will not be extended this time. There is no large gathering around it. Once again, it is just us, sharing the weight of these days.
Locked inside this lockdown photo reportage, we wait for a new day from our side of the glass. Consequently, we wait for a new dawn and a new light.
A very special guest: Steve McCurry visits the exhibition
The narrative behind these “Notes on Light” has reached far beyond the confines of our home, deeply touching the sensibility of great masters. Indeed, it was an immense honor to welcome Steve McCurry among the visitors to the exhibition. His unique gaze on reality and humanity has inspired generations of photographers worldwide. Ultimately, his presence in front of these snapshots of suspended life captures, for me, the deepest meaning of this entire visual journey.
