"I remember when I heard the crack at seven years old; I didn’t care about the pain. I calmly asked my dad how long it would take for the cast to come off. Summer was around the corner, the beach was around the corner of the house we lived in. Doctors said I just couldn’t get that thing wet. But we need to dive in. To fall into places the way a glass slips from your hands. Fall like a receipt falls from your pocket while pulling out your wallet.
Take the mask for the fish, take the big towel, a good book. A cold Moretti in the thermic bag, some fruit, some sunscreen that you’ll apply always too late, only when you feel your skin burning against the pressing sun. Hide the ring before you dive deep into the sea, that one that you never take off, the one that is wrapped tightly against your finger, wrapped tightly against your soul, the one that leaves that strange tan mark on your hand, the one you carry all year round just like you carry a good memory. Leave it for just a little bit. Leave in the shore just that one thing you cannot loose. Leave nothing else on solid ground, the rest goes deep with you into the warm womb of the sea.
When we step barefoot onto the stones of the beach, we don’t feel pain but healing. It’s as if all the paths we walked during the past year led us here, to choose the perfect spot for our umbrella. Plant it down, lie down, go down into the depths of the ocean. Hold your breath, soon you’ll go back home and the cold will start to creep in once again, and the air will be less sticky.
Showers of sun, showers of salt, showers of fresh water to open our eyes again. Complaining about the heat. Waking up thirsty. Having a first real meal only after 7 PM. Thinking we can connect the dots and find the crossword answers. The scent of summer evenings, the smell of the river. Drawing routes with the car like one draws flowers. The swimsuit tan lines. I’d rather be a child waiting for my arm to heal than an adult waiting for a long winter to pass, just to feel my legs come alive again.
At the river, the water is cold, and you dive right in. At the sea, the water feels just right, but I prefer to watch you. Kisses on sunburned cheeks."
The following text results from the questions we asked Anastasia Miseyko and Pietro Bucciarelli, which will remain silent, hidden in their answers. They answered separately, but their words, like their photographs, melted together, shaping into a long, organic text. They say that when you re looking for a direction in life, the questions are more important than the answers. But, sometimes, the questions must remain mute, and the answers come along without a precise order, like the memories of a summer we still remember when the autumn comes and the winter crawls into our bodies.
(Pietro) I remember once. Once when I was fifteen I went to Naples with the priest. There were only a few of us kids, and I was taking pictures with a blue camera. I remember those photos well, and sometimes I like looking at them again. They were simple photos, with no pretense, framed straight, with the subjects nicely centred. I took them to show Naples to my parents, who had never been there. That’s why I take photos. As I grew up, I stopped going on vacation with the priest, and I met Anastasia.
(Anastasia) The first time we met we were sitting at a crowded table with many other people. It was still warm, full of mosquitoes buzzing around our heads, interrupting our thoughts. The first time we met we were riding on the same bike, riding together towards a small town’s fair, trying not to catch too many bumps on the way. The first time we met we explained who we were, based on our parent’s choices. We sat on a yellow couch with a big hole where all the little things went. The first time we met, I learned how to play ‘scopa’ and instantly forgot the rules that same day. Anastasia and I met when we still didn t speak the same language, and even after spending a week together without leaving each other s side, we still didn t feel bored. We met when we got sick and slept in the same bed with stuffy noses and sore throats. I remember when I lived in Treviso, and she lived in Cà dei Monti, and we would exchange emails, especially in the evenings. I remember that time two years ago when she told me that when she was little her father used to say that mammoths became extinct because they were full of lice, so only the hairless elephants remained. It was July. We still didn t know what we were going to do that summer. The first time we met was the first time we met. But there were many others. I think we are still meeting. And trying to be gentle with each other’s growth.
There are many first times, some of them you can only feel through the eyes of another person. Like that stunning view from the back door of my parents’ apartment. Would you say it’s stunning? That’s the view I had for about seven years. Last thing I saw before closing the door at night and first thing in the morning, was still blue and pale, yet to be coloured by the first rays of sun. Would you get used to it, too? Would you grow numb to a certain kind of beauty? What I like about Anastasia are her legs, the enthusiasm she gives me to do things, the jellyfish she catches at the beach, and the words she invents. I like her photos when she shows them to me after a long time. I like when we stop the car in places where we shouldn’t because we want to take a photo. I like it when Anastasia crosses private property and I bite my nails, hiding behind a wall. I like when the red earth of Spain appears in the background, which is almost the same colour as her tan. I like the heart she saw on the ground in my hometown on the road we walked every day. I like looking at photos again after some time. I like the ones I remember, and I like very few photos.
That’s why first times are so important, you know? You can rarely ever return to places. They change, or maybe it’s us that change and I guess that’s the way to go. But isn’t that scary? Moments slipping through your fingers. Memories that feel almost like a past life. I m afraid to do things alone. I don t want to do things alone. When you have too much space, you start to feel the need to be close. That’s why, since we no longer live together, now and then I go back to sleeping in a bunk bed after years of sleeping in a big bed. Sometimes it’s nice not being able to stretch your legs completely and not being able to stretch in the morning. Maybe that’s why the pictures are so tactile. Because I try to keep them close, to keep them tight. Just like a souvenir. A lucky charm. A bus ticket from a city we loved folded carefully in some nook of the wallet.
For those who live in memories (and of memories), sometimes it’s hard to recognize what is happening. But I think it’s good for me that way. Last summer, I didn’t see any shooting stars because maybe I had never looked at the sky with much attention. I’ve been paying attention to attention, lately. That’s exactly what attracts me to an image. It’s not a colour, a shape, not even a specific place or person. It s something that makes you stop, step back, and perform the intrinsically dull action of taking the camera out of your bag. It has your attention, you give it yours. Someone else will give it theirs. It doesn’t matter if it’s the most breathtaking landscape you’ve ever seen or just a rock. Attention is transformative, it’s a radical and precious act.
When I think about my photography, I think of being alone in places. When I get bored, I go for a walk. I like to photograph what I see. How I see it. Without beating around the bush. I often get bored. I often get bored with my photos. I get bored with people, with mosquitoes, when I m not working, and I get bored doing the same things over and over. But I like summer. I like summer. I liked last summer even more. I like the photos I took two years ago, even though I don’t understand them, and sometimes I like being bored. Funny thing is, it’s not the sea and the salt, the sun falling deep and lazy behind the mountains, or the sleepless nights eating sunflower seeds in the park that shaped my idea of summer. It’s the hours passing slowly, the freedom to do absolutely nothing. As an only child, I often felt extremely bored. Extremely annoyed. And even if I didn’t particularly appreciate this feeling in the past, now I see it as an extension of freedom. Freedom and time, contemplation without guilt, a craving for anything and nothing in particular. How long was it, since you last allowed yourself to truly be bored?
“Nothing is permanent. Places where we got a tiny pebble inside a shoe and carried it home involuntarily” is the first time for something new. Something we had been thinking about for a long time but had never done before. I think it helped us get to know each other a little better. It brought us closer and once again reminded us that together we can do the things we like, whatever we want. As for the project, I’d love to say there are big plans ahead, but that wouldn t be true. Honestly, I think that’s its magic: it was born and died in the blink of an eye, just like summers do. We had fun and we got tired. We fell asleep in front of the photos and drove for many hours. I like to talk about it, and I like to go back to those photos to find different stories. The smoke from the fireplace in winter smells like crayons, but I still prefer summer. I like cold water from the fridge and going back to sleep in the big bed, remembering to look at the sky, and stopping being alone in places when we’re together.
