My journey home, to the landscapes of my youth – those places where I was once a heart full of blindness and anger – is a quest for reconciliation with the past. It’s a pilgrimage to the roots of my being, a mosaic of memories, dreams, thoughts and loved ones transformed by the magic of imagination. You will witness the traces of the past, the ghosts that still linger in the shadows, but they are no longer menacing. They are simply a part of the story.

I grow up in a foggy small village in the north of Italy.
A place where time seemed to stand still.
I used to call it “nowhereland”: an unknown place unworthy of any interest.
I left home when I was 18: a simple life was for me a boring one and it scared me. And dreaming big hidden in the hall of a small local cinema was not enough to fill that void.

So I moved to Rome, where I started over. But that “fog” was always there, at the back of my thoughts, reminding me every day where I came from.

In 2020 the pandemic changed my plans, forcing me to go back to my village after so many years.
Maybe it was time to deal with the past.

I decided to spend my time wandering the countryside, the alleys, the old farms and the waterways, exploring faces and places I couldn’t remember anymore.
I told myself: “Find a way to make peace with the past. Remember it. Draw on that wealth of dreams, suggestions and sleepless emotions. Create a new balance between spaces and memories”.

So, these are the memories I tried to forget for a long time.
These are the landscapes of my childhood, transformed by the magic of imagination.
A mosaic of dreams, thoughts and loved ones. Sometimes time blurs their contours, shuffles the cards, and makes forgotten fears resurface.

Now I’m aware that somewhere there was beauty and there was life.
And I was there.
I was just too young and stubborn to be able to see them.