51

Yes. Today I turn 51.

Born in Rome, March 30, 1975.

Thirty-five years there.
Streets that don’t need explanation.
Light bouncing off stone.
Time layered on everything.

Then I left.

Mexico City.
A different rhythm.
Less memory, more impact.
Less silence, more friction.

That’s where it started.
Not from a dream.
Not from a plan.

I became a photographer.

Late, maybe.
But precise.

No mythology around it.
Just a need to look harder.
To stay longer inside a moment.
To not let things slide away unnoticed.

Photography became a way to stand still
while everything else kept moving.

Years passed.
Cameras changed.
Cities changed.
I changed.

The core didn’t.

Still walking.
Still watching.
Still waiting for something to break the surface.

A gesture.
A face.
A contradiction in plain sight.

No interest in perfection.
No interest in noise.

Just presence.

Fifty-one is not a number that asks for celebration.
It asks for clarity.

Cutting what’s unnecessary.
Keeping what matters.

Less distraction.
More intention.

I know what I’m not looking for.
That helps.

What’s ahead is not a “next chapter.”
It’s the same road,
but sharper.

More work.
More depth.
More honesty.

Still curious.
Still restless.

Still out there.