One day, the old man whom everyone called “The Ogre” was in the mood for telling me a story.
While walking with his dog on a hill in the countryside (on a nice and clear morning), a lightning suddenly stroke, out of nowhere, like it slipped away from Jupiter’s very own hands. The dry grass and nearby bushes rapidly caught fire, his faithful companion ran away barking and a lonely oak tree burnt like a gigantic match. In a moment the whole hilltop was ablaze, and he was lucky to escape with his own life.
It was 11:30am, not even lunch time: The Ogre finished his story, stared at me, swayed, and he had a little white stuff at the corner of his mouth, which I knew it was because of the 17 glasses of wine he already had… I looked at him and I thought about his tale, his dog that ran away, the lightning in the clear sky, the hilltop on fire, and I tried to find the way to really tell it, because I had to… It was important to me…
That was why I started taking pictures: There were stories around me that I considered absolutely imperative to tell with a certain emphasis, and just writing about them I feared it wasn’t enough.
So my camera, establishing the perfect symbiosis with my writing, helped me expressing myself in unlimited freedom, and from that day on I could speak about immortal friendship, deep sorrow, fear and courage without restraints and without asking permission to anybody but my muses… From that day on, I was able to tell my stories the way I wanted, spending zero money, maybe the equivalent of one million in work, but zero money… And zero money, we all know, means freedom!