There was a moment, somewhere between the silence of an island night and the flicker of an old photograph, when I realized that memory wasn’t just something to keep.
It was something to live for.
I started photographing in 2010, tracing light through underground music venues, documenting the heartbeat of Naples’ independent scene.
Back then, I lived through music, vinyl spinning late at night, songs becoming personal soundtracks, small rituals that stitched moments into memory. That love still runs deep: I collect records like I collect memories, holding onto what time tries to take.
As I evolved, so did my gaze. Weddings came into my life in 2012: fragments of love, glimpses of intimacy, and truths revealed in a look or a gesture.
In 2019, my father retired, and I started to truly see him, his silence, his humor, and his gentleness. I became more curious about people, their tales, and their unseen threads. Something broke inside me when he died suddenly in 2022. Silently, however, something else started to take shape.
I visited Lanzarote in 2023. Maybe it’s no coincidence that I, born under the sign of Aries, with fire in my blood and Vesuvius just outside my window, was drawn to another volcanic land. Lanzarote didn’t just welcome me; it transformed me. Its black sands, white cities, silent craters, and wind-sculpted paths reminded me of who I was and how I feel: passionate, curious, imperfect, and moved by what doesn’t ask for attention.
Memorya was born from this journey. It’s more than a name, it’s a home for all that I create. A space to honor memory, my father, the fleetingness of time. It holds the tenderness of the moments I photograph, the rough edges of what’s real, and the poetry of what we’re afraid to forget.
It holds, too, the small things that make me who I am: my love for Lego bricks and galaxies far, far away; my window view of the sleeping giant I grew up with; the way music fills my spaces when words fall short. Memorya is where all this lives, what was, what is, and what still burns.