Beauty is everywhere. But it rarely reveals itself without resistance — it hides in a hospital corridor, in a working-class neighborhood, on a mountain slope, in the ordinary corners we walk past every day.

This series follows that resistance. A shaman-like figure emerges from the silence of the mountains. In Naples' Rione Sanità, a street artist's tribute to sculptor Jago appears at the Jago Museum. A staircase catches light like crystal inside a hospital ward, where waiting becomes something to color rather than endure. In a nightclub in Lavagna, a woman closes her eyes over a glass of wine, her mind elsewhere, while a fish-shaped object seems to pierce straight into her thoughts. At home in Recco, the last leaves of lemon verbena float suspended in an empty gin and tonic glass — beauty caught in what's left after the drink is gone. And sometimes it is simply close — in the street where I live.

I come from thirty years of manual work in naval carpentry, where you learn to read material and light before you learn to name them. Photography, for me, is the same discipline turned outward: not decoration, but attention.