Saturday Morning

(Made and sent from my mobile.)

Saturday Morning

It's time to play in the kitchen.

(Made and sent from my mobile.)

We are shadows

Milano, Garibaldi underground station.

It's surprising how a badly made shot can turn into an evocative picture.

(Made and sent from my mobile.)

Black Coffee with Milk

(Made and sent from my mobile.)

Swedish Interiors

I can't remember by heart how many pictures I've taken in nearly eighteen years of digital photography. An simple inquiry on my storage devices could return scaring numbers. I stopped counting them a long time ago. As a matter of fact, for years, during my travels in Northern Europe I used to shoot everything I saw and store them in the HD as soon as I was back home, in wait for better times.

Those better times never arrived. Nevertheless, from time to time it happens to dig into the folders for some other reasons and stop on shoots that I forgot about. Simple pictures, some times taken in prohibitive conditions and apparently meaningless to anyone else but me.

So, this afternoon I fell into a folder where the following two pictures had been thrown. They were taken with an old mobile telephone of mine. The original images are really poor but the process I applied to convert them to B&W made things better, turning them into something good enough for publishing.

They were taken in Mölndal, in the old Ericsson premises were the product unit I belonged to was based. At that time a total restructuring operation had just been announced and several offices had been left empty, or almost.

Empty spaces have always been my favorites for long discussions on the phone or for short leg-stretching walks during a coffee break. In one of those rooms, right on the windowsill I spotted some decoration items, left as if the room had just been abandoned under a fire alarm. Items brought in office to make it look like warmer, as our own apartments and then surprisingly forgotten, abandoned.

(A Swedish Window)

The glass bowl on a typical Swedish styled piece of furniture, that I wondered if it ever had been used for any purpose, was another example. Laying on a parquet floor full of screws rolling around and each of my steps was worth of a modern art installation, that I couldn't disregard.

(A Swedish Meeting Table)

Far from the madding crowd

So, at the end of a breathtaking, restless week I took up to make a long run in the open fields, far from the noisy and annoying crowd of the town.

(Made and sent from my mobile.)

Not in this way

The photograph I published few days ago was made at Vivian Maier's  exhibition, on stage till the end of January at Fondazione Forma, not far from the central Piazza Duomo, in Milan. I hurried to send out that picture of my son, laying on an armchair and clearly bored at the end of the exhibition path, together with an equally distracted man as an anticipation of what I'm about to write below. Facts are that I'm busy enough in this first quarter of the year that I nearly forgot about my blog and comment my latest photographic experience. 

After reading about Vivian Maier's photographs being shown in Milan, I gladly accepted to modify my ordinary Sunday program and get on a train to reach the overcrowded city center. I was so eager and excited to see her pictures that, talking with my family at home, I convinced them to come with me and see it, notwithstanding the icy winds sweeping the town these days.

I regret to note here that, after visiting several exhibitions all around the world, this one turned out to be disappointing as never before. If I only could, I would claim my money back. The first warning sign was a rude and presumptuous clerk at the entrance that, pretending to regulate the flow of people queuing at the door, treated us all very badly, with no real reason beside exerting an exaggerated and distorted interpretation of his tasks. A clear example of what is also said: "The power of the powerless". My wife even undertook a useless discussion with that "man in black" and for a while we were about to turn our step back but the will to visit the exhibition was greater than the "disturbance" caused by him.

Unfortunately, the worst still had to come: a hundred of prints put up on the walls of two small rooms with no apparent logic; small spotlights placed in some cases at eye level and causing annoying reflections everywhere; more than one hundred people crammed inside at the same time, surpassing each other in the attempt to gain space and a position good enough to watch the picture before the someone behind them pushed in; a small and unreachable (for the number of heads tossing before you) monitor, where some of Mrs Maier's Super8 takes were supposed to be on display; no explanations, timelines, background notes and just two seats to let the visitors take a break.

We came out of the exhibition completely upset, persuaded to have wasted our money.

I don't want to add more.

At Vivian Maier's

Polenta

Polenta was once considered the poors' meal. Simple and easy. Perfect and practical substitution of bread. Companion of every kind of food. Warm and satisfactory. A meal that let lower classes feel like princes.

Nowadays it has become a rarity. No one has anymore time to spend standing beside the fireplace. Polenta's powder is only sold half cooked. One hour has shrunk into five, three, sometimes two minutes. Less than a microwave oven warm up. Instant.

So have become our gatherings at the table. Youngsters come late, sit and rush away soon. No time to stay and talk with their parents. What should they talk about? Who's this fault, I wonder.

(Made and sent from my mobile)

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