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, with a collapse or catastrophe. It arrives slowly, quietly. Almost imperceptibly, the familiarity of spaces begins to erode. What once felt grounded starts to loosen, until it becomes something harder to define. Not gone, but not quite there either.
It’s not about loss, exactly. And not nostalgia. It’s more like a drift. A shift where things stop being what they were, without becoming anything new. You find yourself in a kind of suspension. A zone between meaning and motion. Movement, not progress. Change without arrival.
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. You leave, but you were never really there.
The photographs do not try to hold on to anything. They don’t document, explain, or preserve. They are fragments—brief impressions of a spatial identity that no longer holds. They capture places that feel incomplete or temporary. Locations that make more sense as you leave them than while you are there. And somehow, that instability feels closer to the truth.
This isn’t a study of non-places in the anthropological sense. It’s something more intuitive. A recognition that there are times when disorientation is not a symptom, but a state in itself.
If there is resistance here, it’s subtle. 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? 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.