Capsule Photo

El pollo es un viejo amigo de los estudiantes de estadística. Ya saben: uno se come dos pollos, el otro ninguno; por lo tanto, hemos comido un pollo cada uno… Pero cuando pollo no hay, las estadísticas y sus engaños quedan literalmente en cero. El pollo es carne revolucionaria. Carne del orgullo patriótico. Es la única carne prevista por la canasta básica familiar, la llamada cuota, es decir, la lista de productos alimenticios a los que el ciudadano cubano debería tener derecho presentando en el mostrador del carnicero su libreta de abastecimiento, o sea la tarjeta de racionamiento, un cuadernillo muy parecido al que usted tiene en las manos, aunque con unas dimensiones  imilares a las del folleto dentro del bolsillo de la contraportada.
Pero pollo no hay. Hoy no hay. ¿Mañana? Quién sabe.
El carnicero se lo dirá con una sonrisa de resignada e irónica solidaridad. La misma que recibió Simone Bacci la primera mañana de su primera estancia en Cuba, en 2016, cuando, como italiano dependiente de la cafeína, pensó que para para desayunar con un buen café era suficiente bajar a la bodega y comprar un paquete. No, café no hay. […] Al cabo de unos días se acostumbró al mantra. Pero, sobre todo, empezó a ver esos estantes desolados, medio vacíos o completamente vacíos, donde a veces solo alguna etiqueta escrita a mano, como una especie de lápida a los caídos, habla de mercancías que quizá estuvieron allí alguna vez, pero ya no, no hay […]
No hay arroz, no hay harina, no hay nada, o casi nada. Para no hablar de las farmacias, donde el no hay, de condena al ayuno, se convierte en la angustia de no poder curarse.

(del texto introductorio de Michele Smargiassi)

It is around grammar that Massimo Magistrini's work revolves, like the needle of a compass.
The very title of the book is entrusted to a preposition, In, which later becomes a prefix to introduce the internal sections. With a daring move, a simple particle takes on the task of deciphering a complex work, articulated in several series that, when considered as a whole, provide a precise vision of photography and the natural world.
Behind the camera, the author adopts the attentive gaze of the hiker who moves through minimal environments but knows how to imagine boundless realities, scrutinizing and consulting woods, herbs, wildflowers, moss, and ancient nautical maps. [...]
In-canto (TN: en-chantment) is the chapter that opens the book and transports us into the woodland dimension, into an archetypal place where exuberance and mystery dwell. It is the double exposure in-camera - not in post-production - that gathers them both, giving life to a process of sedimentation and transformation that alludes to the physiological and symbolic implications of forest regeneration.
In-colto (TN: un-tended), which follows, instead interprets the idea of a garden, a well-protected hortus conclusus, well guarded by the edges of the image and populated by common yet extraordinary specimens. Here, in addition to the double exposure that emphasizes various combinations of elementary botanical forms, it is the black and white that synthesizes the entire sequence, converting it into a gallery of sophisticated tapestries.
In-esplorato (TN: un-explored), lastly, contains two fantastic maps created with images of mosses and conifer leaves, to which a third map is added, built with details extrapolated from an ancient portolan chart. [...]
(Laura Manione)

Honey and Gall—two substances with opposing sensory profiles, often entwined in symbolic contrast. “Mel in ore [...] fel in corde” (honey in the mouth, gall in the heart), reads a medieval Latin proverb; “in corpo fiele, in bocca miele” (gall in the body, honey on the lips), wrote Pirandello in The Man, the Beast and the Virtue.

With this title, Iara Di Stefano invokes an ancient dualism to frame the narrative of a pivotal year - a turning point in her own life. The book unfolds through contrasting materials and shifting registers, creating a rhythm of fracture and recomposition. Yet from these apparent disruptions, a kind of organic unity emerges - almost biological in nature. The photographs act as surfaces upon which both sweetness and bitterness accumulate, like traces left behind by experience.

(from the presentation text by Laura Manione)

It was common in the 1960s, and perhaps even earlier, to rent out one’s home to vacationers who came to spend their holidays by the sea, in order to earn some extra money. Meanwhile, we would sleep in the garage, where we had managed to set up a bathroom.
The less fortunate made do in the shed.
Tourists would stay for the entire season, bringing the whole family along, including grandparents. Only the father sometimes had to return home to work — unlike today, when even managing a weekend away feels difficult.
My parents owned a haberdashery on the main avenue and didn’t have much time to look after me, so during the summer, I became the child of the tourists and a sibling to their children. I often ate with them and spent the whole day at the beach, making the most of the sun until it disappeared.
I remember that towards the end of the day, we would search for the last rays of sunlight to finish our sandcastles, as those giant concrete buildings cast long shadows.

(Silvio Canini)