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Venice Beach Skatepark, California.Not the kind of subject I'd usually choose, and this hard, frontal light isn't the ki...
07/07/2026

Venice Beach Skatepark, California.

Not the kind of subject I'd usually choose, and this hard, frontal light isn't the kind I usually chase either. I shot it anyway, more focused on limiting the damage of my inexperience in that moment than on truly building the image.

I'm posting it here for exactly that reason. Not for the result, but for the honesty of admitting there's something to learn even from a shot that didn't fully come together. Stepping out of one's comfort zone often means just that: accepting an imperfect image for the sake of growing.

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Monument Valley, Arizona.4am, a storm broke over camp, violent and brief. By morning it returned, and the sky turned a h...
07/02/2026

Monument Valley, Arizona.

4am, a storm broke over camp, violent and brief. By morning it returned, and the sky turned a heavy grey that swallowed the mesas whole. Every traveler in the park waited it out at the visitor center, watching the same ceiling, the same doubt.

We didn’t wait. We drove back into the valley, betting on empty roads over uncertain skies.

Half an hour later, the sky tore open. Gold and copper light spilling through clouds still heavy with rain, and not another soul in sight. The Mittens standing alone, like the storm was performing only for us. Then just as fast, the clouds gave way to a blinding, empty-blue sun, and that’s when the caravan began pouring into the park. We met them on our way out, having already had the valley to ourselves.

Shot as .jpg, not RAW, back when I still feared running out of memory. So whatever this photo lacks in pixels, the story makes up for.

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The last photo from Japan. Not the most beautiful. Not the most original. But the one that challenged me the most.Steps ...
06/28/2026

The last photo from Japan. Not the most beautiful. Not the most original. But the one that challenged me the most.

Steps from Shibuya Crossing, in the glowing heart of Shibuya Yokochō, a covered alley where signs multiply, lanterns overlap, and light fights the darkness with warmth and shadow.

The technical challenge was real: bring out every detail without blowing the highlights, hold the depth without losing the atmosphere. A delicate balance, built patiently. It took time. Perhaps too much. But when I saw the result, I knew it was worth it.

Japan asks you to slow down. To observe. To wait for the moment when light stops being light and becomes story.

Has it ever happened that you were more proud of a difficult shot than a beautiful one?

Onward, with grit.

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One street. One afternoon. No detours.On Hanamikoji-dori, in the heart of Gion, from around four o’clock, the Maiko and ...
06/25/2026

One street. One afternoon. No detours.

On Hanamikoji-dori, in the heart of Gion, from around four o’clock, the Maiko and Geisha begin their passage: house to ochaya, ochaya to house, two or three quiet trips, eyes always downward, the world outside simply not permitted to exist.

I stayed on that street and let time do its work.

First, I made sure they always walked toward me. Not a glance. Not at me, not at anyone. Just the sound of wooden geta on stone, the rustle of silk, the elegance of absolute indifference.

Then I let them see the camera. A small nod. Something close to a bow.

After an hour or more, I tried a quiet gesture, a wordless question asking permission. Nothing. No signal. No opening.

I had almost made my peace with it.

Then, through the viewfinder, I saw it: she lifted her eyes, just a fraction. Brief. Furtive. A glance that lasted less than a breath.

The Nikon Z8 and its buffer did the rest.

I could have kept this in colour. The kimono was a vivid, striking blue. Her lips, vermillion. But the figure of a Geisha carries me to other times, distant ones, at least in my imagination, and black and white recreates that world more faithfully than any colour ever could.

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Temple or Shrine? 🏯Do you know the difference between a temple and a shrine? If you didn’t, not until you set foot in Ja...
06/20/2026

Temple or Shrine? 🏯

Do you know the difference between a temple and a shrine? If you didn’t, not until you set foot in Japan yourself, welcome to the club. I, too, found myself confused in those first few days.

Here, in brief, lies the answer. Shrines, known as jinja, belong to the Shinto tradition, the indigenous faith of Japan, and are devoted to the kami, the spirits of nature and of ancestors. They are marked, unmistakably, by the torii, that vermilion gate standing sentinel at the entrance. Temples, by contrast, called tera or ji, are Buddhist in origin, carried across the sea from China and Korea, home to statues of the Buddha, to pagodas, and often to cemeteries. Put simply, no torii, and you are standing before a temple. A torii, and you have found a shrine.

The Photograph

This image was captured in Kyoto, the lens pointed straight upward, to reveal the architecture in its full complexity, the ridge beam, and the intricate lattice of timber that holds the roof aloft. Those spiralled discs lining the eaves are kawara, the decorative roof tiles of traditional Japanese architecture, while the great circular tile crowning the peak, bearing its engraved kanji, is known as the onigawara, literally the demon tile, placed there, as tradition holds, to ward off evil spirits.

The bell suspended at the centre is a fixture common to both shrines and temples alike, though its purpose shifts with its setting. At many shrines, it is rung by worshippers to draw the attention of the kami before a prayer is offered, the pull of a braided rope sending its bronze voice echoing through the timber above.

And the Bird?

But did you spot the bird? There it sits, perched quietly among the rafters, a small and unassuming witness to centuries of devotion. Can you guess what species it might be?

The answer awaits in the first comment.

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This is a corner of Ninenzaka, in the Higashiyama district of Kyoto. You’ve probably already seen dozens of photographs ...
06/17/2026

This is a corner of Ninenzaka, in the Higashiyama district of Kyoto.
You’ve probably already seen dozens of photographs of this staircase, and maybe it doesn’t stir any emotion in you anymore: it’s become a familiar image. For me, it isn’t. Every time I look at it, I remember the whole journey it took to capture it.

I was staying in a ryokan more than two kilometers from there, and I knew that the only way to find that street without a single tourist was to arrive very early, right after sunrise. I set off while it was still dark, retracing from memory the route I had walked the day before, without getting lost.

When I arrived, the neighborhood was still wrapped in uncertain light, somewhere between the last blue of night and the first grey of dawn.
Yet I wasn’t alone: half a dozen photographers had already claimed the best spots, tripods planted on the cobblestones like sentinels waiting for the right moment.

Maybe we were a little selfish, because the few tourists who, like us, had thought of discovering Kyoto’s most beautiful district at dawn ended up waiting a few extra minutes, while we tried to steal the first light of morning for ourselves.

But this is the result.
I chose a deliberately muted color grade, one able to bring back that old, faded feeling, that atmosphere suspended in time which seemed to me the only way to convey what I felt in those few minutes: as if I had taken a small trip back in time.

I hope you like it.

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Kenji comes every Thursday.He knows it. And so does she, somewhere beneath that grey stone where someone, years ago, car...
06/11/2026

Kenji comes every Thursday.

He knows it. And so does she, somewhere beneath that grey stone where someone, years ago, carved her name with quiet care.

He always brings two things: a sprig of satsuki, her favourite flower, and a thermos of green tea, too hot, because she always said that barilely warm tea was an offence against civilisation.

He leans in, arranges the sprig, speaks softly.

He doesn’t pray. He tells her things.

About the grandson who finally learned to ride a bike. About the roof that still leaks, despite the plumber’s promises. About how he still can’t sleep on her side of the bed.

Then he straightens up, looks out across the valley of names, and for a moment it seems he’s searching for the right words.

But he says nothing more.

He pours the tea over the stone, as always.

And walks away.

Sometimes, when I take a photo, a story forms in my head. I don’t look for it. It just arrives. This was one of those times.

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Some cities never pause to breathe. Tokyo at night is one of them.From an elevated vantage point above Omotesando, the c...
06/09/2026

Some cities never pause to breathe. Tokyo at night is one of them.

From an elevated vantage point above Omotesando, the city reveals itself as pure motion. Red taillights and white headlights carve long, luminous arcs through the darkness, while the towers of Shibuya rise behind them, wrapped in neon and glass. The Prada store anchors the right edge of the frame like a quiet witness to the rush.

Long exposure photography does something extraordinary here: it turns the ordinary act of driving into something almost choreographic. The street becomes a canvas. The cars, invisible. Only light remains.

This is Tokyo after midnight. Relentless, cinematic, and utterly alive.

Have you ever stood above a city at night and felt the urge to just… stay there forever?

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