Commercial Work
Personal Projects
Commercial Work
Personal Projects
A selection of my personal photographic projects over the years.
My style has naturally shifted with time — in both subject matter and technique — but one thing has stayed the same: I’m drawn to moments, people, and places that feel singular.
Nostalgia has always been a quiet undercurrent in my life. Photography has become a small, personal way of leaning into that feeling. It lets me linger a bit longer; helps me make peace with time.
AUTO-AMERICANA
Anthology
This series captures the essence of a bygone era when vehicles were not just modes of transportation but authentic works of art, crafted with meticulous attention to design and detail. From sun-soaked highways to forgotten backroads, each image tells a story of nostalgia and passion for a time when the open road symbolized possibility, far from the impersonal efficiency of today’s transportation.
Between the 1950s and the 1970s, the automobile industry was in its golden age of imagination. Designers treated cars as sculptures in motion—rolling expressions of national optimism, technological daring, and stylistic fantasy. From the tailfins of late-50s Cadillacs to the aerodynamic wedges of 70s Lamborghinis, the road was a gallery of chrome dreams.
What followed, however, was the slow domestication of design. As manufacturing globalized, car companies began sharing platforms, parts, and even entire body structures. The oil crises of the 70s, coupled with stricter safety and emissions regulations, demanded efficiency and standardization. Suddenly, sharp edges softened, proportions normalized, and bold experimentation gave way to cautious aerodynamics. Creativity was hemmed in by crash tests, fuel economy, and shared tooling costs.
Today’s cars may be faster, safer, and more reliable—but they no longer seem to dream. Their shapes are optimized, their faces interchangeable, their characters subdued. The flamboyant era of fins, chrome, and fearless curves reminds us that design once dared to provoke, to surprise, to make people feel something.
During my teenage years growing up in Italy, classic American cars existed only in the realm of cinema. They were mythical creatures—chrome beasts gliding through California sunsets or rumbling down desert highways in the movies I loved. On Italian streets, they were nowhere to be found. The cars around me were compact, efficient, practical—designed for narrow roads and modest fuel budgets, not for spectacle.
When I moved to Chicago for college, I finally came face to face with those legends. Seeing them in real life felt almost surreal. Their size, their excess, their unapologetic presence—everything about them seemed alien to my European sensibilities. I remember running my hand along the endless fender of a 60s Buick, realizing how much of it was pure design indulgence, how little was function. And I was hooked.
The people who owned and maintained these cars fascinated me even more. While most Americans were buying newer, safer, and more efficient vehicles, these individuals chose to preserve machines that were anything but practical. They were often unorthodox souls, outsiders with strong personalities and stubborn attachments. There had to be something slightly “wrong” with you—in the best possible way—to devote yourself to such an irrational passion.
After college, I moved to California, and the legends were true: nowhere else in the world are classic cars so alive, so present in everyday life. It’s the state with the highest number of vintage vehicles per capita, and you feel it everywhere, from the lowriders cruising down Whittier Boulevard to the perfectly preserved convertibles glinting in Malibu sun.
The passion in California is unmatched. Part of it, of course, is cultural — this state has always been a playground for aesthetes and eccentrics. A place where people cling to their ideals, their youth, or their favorite decade a little longer than they probably should. The 60s never really ended here; they just changed license plates.
But there’s also a practical reason for this automotive paradise. The climate is kind to metal. With no snow in most of the state, there’s no salt eating away at the undercarriages, no rust silently consuming these machines. Cars that would have long disintegrated elsewhere survive here as time capsules—rolling reminders of an era when design still dared to be emotional.
I’m aware that, with time, there will be fewer and fewer of these cars left. The natural decay of their parts, the slow disappearance of the specialized knowledge needed to repair them, and the dwindling supply of spare components—all of it conspires against their survival. Each year, another one disappears quietly into a junkyard or a private collection, never to be seen on the road again. They’re becoming like strange animals, occasional sightings that make you stop and stare, knowing you’ve witnessed something rare.
That’s partly why I photograph them. What began as a personal obsession has turned into something closer to documentation—a way of preserving not just the cars themselves, but the spirit they represent. Through my eyes, I like to think I’m building a small historical archive, capturing a time when design was daring, imperfect, and deeply human.
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