Window Mannequin | If You Wanna See Me Naked You’re Going To Have To Buy The Clothes On My Body ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 5.000.-
I wandered in the wintry streets of a port, in the low quarter of some city. The streets were muddy. I wandered through the long, frozen and sombre corridors in the emptiness of a deserted district: a quarter which might almost have been dead, abruptly abandoned. I was alone, subjected to the stares of mannequins seated in their tall shop windows or huddled in doorways, whose eyes seemed to ransack my very soul. They did not speak to me. They were silent. And they were all exactly alike! They might have been huge marionettes, left behind in panic – for I divined that some plague, some frightful epidemic, had swept through the town and emptied it of its inhabitants. I was alone with these simulacra of femininity. I had already been wandering for hours without being able to find a way out of that miserable quarter, obsessed by the fixed and varnished eyes of all those automata, when I was seized by the sudden thought that all these puppets were dead women, plague-stricken and putrefied by cholera where they stood, in the solitude, beneath their plaster masks. And my entrails were liquefied by cold. In spite of that harrowing chill, I was drawn closer to a motionless girl. I saw that she was indeed wearing a mask, and the one in the next window was also masked, and all of them were horribly alike under their identical crude coloring. I was alone with the masks, with the masked corpses, when, all of a sudden, I perceived that beneath the false faces of plaster and cardboard, the eyes of these dead dolls were alive; their vitreous eyes were looking at me. In that moment I had recognized all the women.
Silk Scarf Coming | No Telegram Today, Only More Leaves Fell ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 7.000.-
Très chic. I am planning on buying 20 Porsche and crashing them all just for the extravagance! Ohhh, je suis très désolé! Independence has always been my attitude. And because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. To do, not what is expected, but what I feel is right. You don’t need a perfect body or designer clothes to score a date. All you need is a smile and an actual life of your own. I am a modern lady, but not a trendy one. I remain eternally young simply because of my characteristic style. Other women get old, I get vintage. The roads are waiting and so is me. Hit me on the road and push me to my limits and you seriously can burn some rubber with me.
Miss Nice Saxing America | Out On That Open Road Swinging With The Old Cars ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 9.000.-
I’ve been out on that open road, singing in the old bars, swinging with the old cars. That’s the way the road dogs do it. That’s the way I make my life an art. This is my idea of fun. Don’t break me down, I’ve been traveling too long. I’ve been trying too hard, with one pretty song. I wear my red lipstick, I grab my coat, I grab my sax. Winter of my life, let’s ride. Don’t take me home again, take me to a new land. I can escape to the great sunshine, make it out to the other side. Drugs, suck it up like Vanilla Ice-ys, treat me really nice-ys. My eyes are wide like cherry pies. I was born to live fast, die young, live my life on the run. Oh, my God, I feel it in the air. I’m on fire, I feel it everywhere, wonder if this is it, it’s darkest before dawn. I fall asleep in an American flag. I’m Miss America, now I’m gone. I’m Miss America, now I’m free.
King’s Camp | Isidora Riding The Blade While Metropolis’ Moloch Dries The Niagara Falls ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 5.000.-
Isidora, the King’s Queen and step daughter, has come down from Olympus to visit us mortals in our invisible cities. That human drift, which is natural simplicity itself, is not for you moderns, you children of reflection. It works only evil in you. As soon as you wish to be divine, you become common. To you nature seems something hostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and out of me a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slay yourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar. And if ever one of you has had the courage to kiss my red mouth, he makes a barefoot pilgrimage to Rome in penitential robes and expects flowers to grow from his withered staff, while under my feet roses, violets, and myrtles spring up every hour, but their fragrance does not agree with you. Stay among your northern fogs; but let us pagans remain under the debris, beneath the frozen lava – do not disinter us!
Big Shot | Choose Your Subject Intuitively & The Camera Can Write Poetry ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 7.000.-
Looking into the lens I ask myself: people spot a big black lens, and they worry about what they are doing, or how their hair looks. Nobody sees the person holding the camera. I’m Big Shot, I had fallen hard for the whole gadgetry: a tiny piece of glass slowing, bending, organizing light; the film keeping the image like a secret, tucked neatly into the sleek black box. The first cameras had only inventors, buffs and enthusiasts to operate them. Since there were then no professional photographers, there could not be amateurs either. It was a gratuitous, that is, an artistic activity, though with few pretensions to being an art. It was only with its industrialization that photography came into its own as art. What it once took a very intelligent eye to see, anyone can see now. Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing – which means that, like every mass art form, photography is not practiced by most people as an art. But if you choose your subject selectively, intuitively, the camera can write poetry.
Film Noir | The World Is The Mirror Of Myself Dying ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 9.000.- ▪ 1 Left
There is something unbearably sexy about cars at night. The way the fenders twist the light and reflect the road, the way every driver becomes anonymous. Three o’clock in the morning. The highway is empty, under a malignant moon. The oil drippings make the roadway gleam like a blue-satin ribbon. The night is still but for a humming noise coming up somewhere behind a rise of ground. Two other, fiercer, whiter moons, set close together, suddenly top the rise, shoot a fan of blinding platinum far down ahead of them. Headlights. The humming burgeons into a roar. The touring car is going so fast it sways from side to side. The road is straight. The way is long. The night is short. Film Noir.
Inno Saint | I Used To Think A Bird Couldn’t Fly If Its Wings Got Wet ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 12.000.-
The land and the water make numbers joined, through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown – a poem written in flesh and stronger than steel or granite. For years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my mind – her. She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately – a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs. I could see only the eyes shining through; eyes so big and bright, as if they saw more than they could comprehend. That’s what made them so beautifully bright. One can wait a whole lifetime for a moment like this. The woman whom you never hoped to meet now stands before you and she looks exactly like the person you dreamed about. But the strangest of all is that you never realized before that you had dreamed about her. Your whole past is like a long sleep, which would have been forgotten had there been no dream to become reality. I sit down beside her and she talks. I hear not a word because she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die. But she even wouldn’t remember that at a certain corner I had stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain there in perpetuum, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole Latin civilization wiped out forever and ever. I loved – and I lost.
Cirque Du Soleil | Polka Dots Swept Ashore & Mr. Rossi Looks For Happiness ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 5.000.-
Beauty – what is beauty, forsooth? Form and color; that is, surface only. Fortune – what is fortune? Nothing is ever a pleasure or a real profit to him who has to labour for it. Truth – you die in the pursuit, and the sea beats the beach as it did a thousand years ago. One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few. Some people might have a shallow understanding of what it means to be alive, but you don’t need a whole lot. Barefoot on a beach, being in the water and smelling that salt air and hearing the seagulls. Running into the sea in the middle of the night. Seeing a mother in her beach chair, reading a book under an umbrella by the water’s edge while her children play beside her. Take your time at a place you love, restore your spirit with books and the beach. The beach becomes a kind of utopia – the place where all your dreams might come true.
4 Children For Sale | The Camera Is A Diabolic Instrument To Reflect Reality At Lightning Speed ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 12.000.-
Through photographs, each family constructs a portrait-chronicle of itself; a portable kit of images that bears witness to its connectedness. They are on the auction block; a big ’4 Children For Sale – Inquire Within’ sign in a Chicago / Illinois yard mutely tells a family’s tragic story. For long months the family waged a desperate but losing battle to keep food in the mouth and a roof over their heads. With no place to turn, they decide to sell their four children. The mother was shielding her eyes from the camera while her four small children stare wonderingly sitting huddled on steps outside. This photograph is the remake of an infamous historical photo originally taken in 1948, that made its way into many U.S. newspapers. Redone to put focus on the tragic case again because things haven’t changed very much. Human trafficking is still around in many countries and still numerous children are sold throughout the world. Many of them abused by child labor and kept in child slavery; not to mention sexual abuse and child prostitution.
The Kid | For Whom The Hammer Tolls ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 15.000.-
It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. It is only terrible to have nothing to wait for. But why does a man live? In order to think about it? I want to think and at the same time that is the last thing in the world I want to do. We were young, and we had just begun to love the world and to love being in it; but we have been cut off from real action, from getting on, from progress – we do not believe in those things any more. Life is a disease, brother, and death begins already at birth. Every breath, every heartbeat, is a moment of dying; a little shove toward the end. Our knowledge of life is limited to death. Good or ill, life is life; you only realize that when you have to risk it. To forget is the secret of eternal youth, thus one grows old only through memory.
Road’s End | To Photograph Is To Frame And To Frame Is To Exclude ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ Sold Out
Because the automobile has become our national sex symbol we cannot really enjoy anything unless we can go up an alley for it. So we have to divorce our wife today in order to remove from our mistress the odium of mistress in order to divorce our wife tomorrow in order to remove from our mistress and so on. As a result of which the woman has become cold and and undersexed; she has projected her libido on to the automobile. So in order to capture and master anything at all of her anymore the man has got to make that car his own. So he must not only own one but renew it each year in pristine virginity, lending it to no one, letting no other hand ever know the last secret forever chaste forever wanton intimacy of its pedals and levers, having nowhere to go in it himself and even if he did he would not go where scratch or blemish might deface it, spending all Sunday morning washing and polishing and waxing it because in doing that he is caressing the body of the woman who has long since now denied him her bed.
Mrs. Columbo | Where Is Your Wife, Lieutenant? ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 5.000.-
The camera can be lenient; it is also expert at being cruel. But its cruelty only produces another kind of beauty, according to the surrealist preferences which rule photographic taste. Surrealism lies at the heart of the photographic enterprise; in the very creation of a reality in the second degree, narrower but more dramatic than the one perceived by natural vision. Photographs are perhaps the most mysterious of all objects that make up, and thicken, the environment we recognize as modern. Photographs really are experience captured, and the camera is the ideal arm of the consciousness in its acquisitive mood. The ultimate wisdom of the photographic image is to say: there is the surface, and now think – or rather feel, intuit – what is beyond it, what the reality must be like if it looks that way.
Lido Panfilo | Human Consciousness Strips On An Empty Chessboard ▪ Limited Edition of 3 ▪ € 5.000.-
There are days, nevertheless, when the sun is out and I get off the beaten path. Now and then, I get to thinking about another way of taking pictures, get to wondering if it would make a difference. I used to photograph landscapes without any people in them but now I picture people who happen to be in a particular place. The Italian beach life is a very rich, fertile ground for the peeping Tom aspect of a photographer’s preparation. In the upcoming day’s foggy morning light I had put long strips of film rolls out, in geometric patterns, and abandoned them on the beach; just like bread for the pigeons downtown. I wanted people to find something nice and intriguing to puzzle over. Then I went back to see if the things were still there, or if anyone would have noticed. I’ve set the scenery. I set up the cage. The trawl, a photographer’s Trabucco, was out and ready to net. And I waited. And I observed the groups of people, the lounging grace with which they wore their swimwear like robes, their sense of always being on show; parading and catwalking the strip’s sand. Alas, how thin and insecure is that little beach of white sand we call human consciousness.