“rippen”, “torn”, “broken”  are words frequentely recalled in my work: I feel them as a sort of fault lines able to relocate my gaze and what I’m observing as a photographer.


I was born and raised in a small village, situated in an area hitted by a violent earthquake.

I was almost 7 months old when on November 23 1980, the earth shook for 90 seconds in Irpinia, an area in Campania Region in Italy.

It was Sunday, 7.34 p.m. –they will tell me later hundreds time, because for sure I cannot remember.


The seismic waves snuffed out the life of some three thousand human beings, tore down the houses of 280 thousand people, changed the geography of the land, and created in the aftermath expectations that were swiftly deluded. Irpinia, at the earthquake epicenter, was the area that suffered the greatest damages; this land, considered one of the poorest of southern Italy, saw the already slow developing process suddenly stopped.

I grew up in this world, until I was 19 then I had the chance to go away, looking for my own paths. I have no memories of the event, although these endless seconds affected my perception of this land forever, where everything is still “broken”.


“my broken world” has been my fist attempt.