NO PLACE (NESSUN LUOGO)
(2021-2023)
Let’s say you wake up one day and realize that “place” — as in home, structure, location — has become more of a rumor than a fact. Not all at once. Not with a bang or a flood or a clearly defined before/after. Just… gradually. Like sand slipping out from under your feet while you’re still standing there thinking it’s rock.
Not a disaster. Not nostalgia. Just the slow, barely perceptible shift where things stop being what they were, but don’t become something else either. A liminal zone. A glitch in the system. And in the absence of a clear destination, all you’re left with is motion. Not progress. Just movement.
The images here don’t try to document or preserve. They don’t scream, “Look what was lost!” or “Here’s what remains!” They just are — fragments of a spatial identity that’s ceased to mean anything fixed. Places you walk through without quite arriving, spaces that exist only as you exit them. And weirdly, that feels more honest.
There’s no theoretical scaffolding here. No tidy anthropological term to tuck everything under. This isn’t about “non-places” in the Augé sense. It’s messier than that. It’s about the persistent, frustrating truth that sometimes, not knowing where you are is the most accurate way to describe where you’ve been.
If there’s a kind of rebellion here, it’s quiet. Refusing the premise that every step has to mean something. That you can only be “home” when you're rooted, enclosed, named. What if home is an impulse? What if it’s the act of moving despite not knowing where?
No Place, then, isn’t nowhere.
It’s the in-between.
The fleeting moment where something ceases to hold, and you don’t fall — you float.