A Sunday as Sharp as the Vespas

There are days when I feel the need to breathe a little fresh air. Not just stepping outside the studio or taking a break from daily tasks, but allowing myself a moment where photography returns to its most genuine roots: pure fun, curiosity, instinct. Not fine art, not complex projects, not the constant pressure to create something “serious.” Just the joy of looking, listening, and capturing.

This past Sunday was one of those occasions. I attended, as a spectator and observer, an interregional Vespa gimkana championship in Puglia and Basilicata. It’s a discipline of skill I didn’t know deeply before, but it surprised me with its contagious energy. The protagonists? The Piaggio Vespa, in different versions and ages, and above all the riders who ride them with passion, facing curves and slalom with a lightness that feels almost playful.

I wasn’t the official photographer of the event, and perhaps that was the most liberating detail: no rules to follow, no assignments to deliver, no deadlines to meet. Just me, my camera, and a new context to dive into. It was like going back to the early days, when taking pictures simply meant exploring without expectations. I observed the track, the riders preparing, the focus in their eyes. I followed, through the lens, the sudden trajectories, the fast turns, the precise maneuvers.

Gimkana racing is not pure speed like track competitions: it’s technique, balance, and precision. And for a photographer, it means chasing motion while never losing sight of the gesture. I discovered that mistakes aren’t the enemy here: sometimes a blur tells the story better than sharpness, capturing the vibration of a moment, the fleeting passage, the tension that transforms into dynamism.

Around me, the audience. Families, enthusiasts, curious visitors. All united by one thing: a smile. The atmosphere was light, convivial, far away from the solemnity of an art exhibition or the silence of a gallery. And yet, even here, among the roar of engines and chalk-drawn curves, I found photographic material. Maybe not the kind that will end up in fine art photography portfolios, but definitely the kind that becomes part of my personal archive of memories and experiences.

This Sunday reminded me that photography is a language that adapts to everything: it can be an instrument of artistic research, a tool of documentary storytelling, but it can also remain a simple game. And within play lies a truth we often forget: there is no need for a “higher” purpose to give value to an image. It is enough that an eye turns into memory, that a fleeting instant remains carved into time, even if only for myself.

Some might ask: what does this have to do with fine art photography? Maybe little, maybe a lot. It depends on perspective. I believe that experiences like these feed the most genuine part of creative vision. They’re like stretching exercises for the eye and the mind: loosening up, stepping outside of one’s usual frameworks, experimenting with rhythms and situations that normally don’t belong to artistic practice. And when I return to structured projects, something fresh always sneaks in, shaped by these side experiences.

At the end of the day, driving back home, I realized how precious this break had been. A Sunday as sharp as the Vespas racing on the track. Sharp because it woke me up from a certain dullness, because it reminded me that photography is not only about work, recognition, or results. It’s also — and above all — about freedom of vision, the desire to be present, to capture ephemeral moments that will never return.

These images may not find a place in my official collections. They may never become prints or hang on a wall. But they are proof that there are times when I’ve lived photography with lightness, with authenticity, with joy. And that, I believe, is worth as much as any portfolio.