NO PLACE (NESSUN LUOGO)
(2021-2023)
There’s no sudden moment when you realize that the idea of place—of home, structure, location—has started to fade. It doesn’t happen all at once. It arrives slowly, quietly. What once felt grounded starts to loosen, until it becomes something more challenging to define. Not gone, but not quite there either.
My mother died in 2011, on a sunny morning in April. Erased and back to square.
It’s not about loss, exactly. It’s more like a drift. A shift where things stop being what they were, without becoming anything new. I found myself in a kind of suspension, a disorienting zone between meaning and motion—movement, not progress.
In these moments, the place stops functioning as an anchor and becomes more like a shadow—something you notice only as it slips away. Streets, buildings, rooms: they continue to exist, but they no longer locate you. You pass through them, but don’t land.
The photographs, like memories, do not try to hold on to anything. They don’t document, explain, or preserve. They are fragments—brief impressions of a spatial identity. They capture places that feel incomplete or temporary. Locations that make more sense as you leave them than while you are there.
A quiet refusal to treat rootedness as the only form of belonging. To question the idea that home must always be something fixed, enclosed, and named. What if home is not a point on a map, but an instinct that guides you? What if it’s the act of moving, even without knowing where to?
No Place isn’t the absence of location. It’s the space between definitions. The pause before things settle. The in-between that most maps leave blank.