Photography: the construction of reality through the gaze

Every time I take a photograph, I remind myself that photography is not a faithful record of reality, but a construction of the eye and the mind. I do not document, I interpret. I do not record, I translate. Yet today, in a world flooded with images, I feel the need to reiterate this principle: photography is not about copying, it is about choosing what to say and what to leave unsaid.

The camera becomes a mere instrument of a language, that of photography, photography in the broad sense and not a simple mechanism that duplicates reality. It ends up being a device for selective vision, poetic synthesis, reading the world filtered through my perception and my visual conceptions.

The choice before the shot

I do not believe in “I see and I photograph”. Even before the shot, there is a recognition, a silent whisper that says: this deserves attention. And not because it is beautiful in the conventional sense, but because it carries with it a tension, an internal rhythm that resonates with what I am looking for. An unconscious mechanism that translates into Adams' aphorism: 'You put into your photography all the pictures you have seen, the books you have read, the music you have heard and the people you have loved'. The sum of the external elements that characterise the individual make their photographic vision unique.

Nevertheless, in relation to reality, the image arises as subtraction, not accumulation. I choose what to exclude as much as what to include. A choice that is as unconscious as it is better if made consciously and arbitrarily. As Luigi Ghirri writes: “The photographer, in the act of framing, decides what to leave out of the shot”. This is a powerful concept because it empowers the photographer in his vision of the “world”. Every frame is a theoretical and poetic decision, a balance between form and content, between the visible and the suggested. Every frame bears the signature of the viewer, even before the person who presses the button. As Szarkowski also reiterates. And this is a leap of awareness that not everyone embraces, ending up remaining in uncertainty, or ‘I don't know what I'm doing or why.’

The role of the gaze

Two photographers in front of the same subject will produce different worlds. The gaze is not neutral: it is already authorial, already interpretation. Observing is an act of translation, of selection, of emotional response. I reiterate this strongly.

In my work, every subject becomes a prism through which to filter my perception. I do not photograph the world “as it is”, but as I feel it: with what strikes me, what disturbs me, what fascinates me. Even the most common landscape can be transformed into a story if my gaze crosses it with awareness.

The distance between the eye and the image

There is always a fertile margin between what I see and what I feel. Photography is translation, not reproduction. Reality fragments, bends, and transforms itself in the moment when the camera captures not only light, but also the attention, memory, and internal tension of the person taking the picture.

In this interval, between the real and the imagined, the true power of the image is born: the space for interpretation, the possibility of suspending judgement, of bringing the viewer into a silent conversation with what has been seen. And it is this interval that defines the author. The author does not limit himself to slavish reproduction but presents his own interpretation.

My personal research

My way of working stems from this conviction: not to describe the world, but to transfigure its meaning. Each series, from Criptaliae to my latest explorations through individual photographs, seeks to transform landscapes, objects and other subjects into signs of experience, memory and message.

The landscape, for example, is never just a place: it becomes a metaphor, an emotion, a breath. The lines, the geometries, the shadows tell stories that exist beyond the photographed object. And in this sense, references such as Ghirri or Eggleston are not guides, but bridges: brief hints remind me that photography can convey more than what is visible, it can suggest more than it shows.

The great misunderstanding: 'beautiful = photographable'

There is a common, almost inevitable mistake: thinking that what is aesthetically pleasing is automatically worthy of being photographed. Photography is not confirmation, it is not decoration. Photography must reveal, open up invisible worlds, suspend the observer, make them question what they think they see. And in some ways, it must be fiction. Or rather, a transfiguration of the viewer's unconscious will. When we take commercial photographs of ‘juicy hamburgers’ or stylish women in evening dresses, we are telling a fiction. Not a lie, just a deliberate answer to an unconscious question.

Aesthetics is a tool, not a goal. Depth, on the other hand, comes from intentionality, from the critical act of choosing, subtracting, suspending. Pure beauty can be stunning, depth invites us to see. In my view, aesthetics is not the absence of content. This is a moral conception, which encourages us not to pay attention to elements such as shapes, lines and colours. And it is foolish to think that aesthetics is mere delusion, like pompous and uncomfortable 18th-century aristocratic clothing. No, aesthetics is its pursuit, it is a further defining element.

Photography as a way of thinking

Photography is thinking in images. It is not about preserving souvenirs, but constructing mental maps, paths of meaning. Every shot is a reflection: the subject is always the inner self, not the object outside the frame. The act of photography becomes a continuous questioning: what do I feel? What do I want to convey? How much space do I leave for silence?

The space between me and the subject, between the subject and the viewer, is a field of investigation. This is where photography ceases to be a document and becomes a way of thinking, a tool for observation and participation in the world.

Returning to the initial thesis: I do not reproduce, I construct. Each image is a choice, a subtraction, a tension between what appears and what remains suspended.

Looking at a photograph thus becomes a shared act: the observer enters into dialogue, completes the meaning, adds their own interpretation. There is no single reading, but multiple possible paths.

I therefore invite you to take this step: observe carefully, let the images breathe, feel the tension between what is shown and what is not revealed. And you will discover that each photograph not only tells the story of the world you see, but also of the world you carry within you. And I personally strongly believe that every photograph is a hand extended in dialogue rather than a simple monologue.