My love for food begins from my very childhood with hours spent playing in the kitchen while my mother and my grandmother were cooking. Memories come up like photos carefully conserved in an album. I like to remember the scent of pizza coming back from school: the scent of oregano in the corridor preluded a fantastic pizza, handmade from my grandmother. Her Tiramisu, always abundant and rich, while at rest into the refrigerator waiting for being carried in plank. My spoon would not have waited for the cup, too much eagerness and much cheekiness. Raviolis with herbs and walnuts sauce, everything home-made: the result of passion and knowledge which typically belongs to whom for many years has repeated the same gestures. Family recipes, those which not only are good but have the virtue of bringing me back into the past are able to keep emotions alive, also the farthest ones. I feel nostalgic.
This is what food means to me. Family, staying together, remembering, trying new tastes, sharing. Photography gives me the opportunity, this is what I feel, to stop time at least for a moment. Taking photos of food means to me making food beautiful, beautiful as I want it and as I see it.
In some way food becomes similar to me. My photos tell about me, in that very moment, in a portion of a day with always different lights and emotions.
Other passions? My mountains, the Dolomites. Their summits and roughness, their silence, lights and shadows. Fruits and vegetables of my beloved Cadore. With them, memories once again fly towards childhood and antiquity. A suspended time where grandfathers and great-grandfathers seem to still be there, through the consumed wood and knowledge of generations.