A PHOTOGRAPHER BY MISTAKE

OR FOR A TRICK OF THE FATE

I came into the world (as David Copperfield used to say, one of the myths of my childhood) in a hot summer, in the late 1950s, in Ancona, the regional capital of Marches. I was born in the same house, in the suburbs, where I’m still living today, and in which, before me, at least two generations had lived, on my poor mother’s side. The farmers had already reaped corn and they were at the heart of the threshing (the unforgettable threshing, in the farmyard the red-hot thresher) and in the evening, the glow-worms were ranging, creating a heady, unrepeatable firework display, which the sight would have forgotten in few years.

The Pope was Pio XII (not for a long time), the head of State was Giovanni Gronchi, on 1st January the European Commission was established and on 2nd Maria Callas raised a sensational scandal, refusing to pursue, after the first act, the “Norma” by Bellini at the Opera in Rome. People went to the cinema to enjoy Marlon Brando in “The Young Lions”, Liz Taylor and Paul Newman in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”, Brigitte Bardot in “Love Is My Profession”, Gassman and Mastroianni in “Big Deal on Madonna Street”, Tyrone Power died prematurely, perhaps Fellini was already thinking of “The Sweet Life” and so on. Then, Domenico Modugno enchanted unexpectedly the world with his “In the Blue Painted Blue”.

After the nursery, I went to primary school in 1964, then to junior high school in 1969, to high school (Liceo Scientifico) in 1972 and finally to university in the roaring 1977, until I graduated in Law  in 1984. Today (perhaps I’ve gone too fast), I’m a parastatal employee, a typical job, which allows me to pay rolls and all the rest you can imagine, including ordinary repairs of my almost twenty-year-old manual Yashica FX3, that, I think, will have begun to damn me, but still lasts, I hope, for my sake.

Someone, now and then, says to me “Good morning, lawyer”, but that title is of no use to me, I didn’t even take the exam to become procurator, and even if he wants to tease me, I wonder what he would achieve. That profession wouldn’t have given me the emotions that, on the contrary, I always derive from my beautiful passions, first of all, my beloved photography, that I began to practise when I was 29, perhaps without much conviction at first (I used shamelessly an old camera of my father, whose name I don’t even remember), however I began certainly for a plan already prepared by the fate.

Cornfields, the threshing (which I always went to see at the farmers’ in my area, where I was enraptured by those synchronic movements of pulleys, belts, human arms intent on pitchforking sheaves and straw), the landscape (the landscape of the Marches, naturally), swishing and solitary reed-beds, haystacks, Pompei and Ercolano’s excavations, the legend of Ulysses, film stars, the celebrities of  opera and prose, “Il Trovatore” by Verdi, “I Puritani” by Bellini, the gentlemen of bygone centuries, the unforgettable soaps in the 70s, Belphegor the Ghost of the Louvre (how terrifying!), the tragedy of Titanic (including the names of passengers, survivors and not), the dates of birth and death of the most miscellaneous celebrities (I was a master of them and today I’m still managing), etc, etc. All these would have stepped, harmoniously but with energy, into my heart and, apart from ups and downs, they wouldn’t have left me any more and I would have looked for a sort of “underlying theme” for them.

I lacked sociability, especially with my schoolmates, I often hid myself, I couldn’t play football, and I was a duffer at gym, I hated volleyball, I can’t still swim, but, on the other hand, I was good at all the other subjects, for example at Latin, of which I learnt by heart all the well-known and feared exceptions, and a bit later at Maths.

I didn’t care my schoolmates had fun elsewhere and I handwrote my beautiful letters, all written in a showy and flawless calligraphy, to Maria Callas, Rolando Panerai (still a very good friend), Nicola Rossi Lemeni, Giuseppe Di Stefano, Fedora Barbieri, Mario Del Monaco, Giulietta Simionato, Renata Tebaldi, etc., that is, to the beautiful voices of Opera, that would have influenced indelibly, with their fascination, my teens, until I was 20. Photos with dedications began to arrive in profusion, later I would have started also with actors and directors. I felt honoured and flattered by the nice words of affection and incentive written by these celebrities: “Dear Roberto”, “Dear little friend”, “Best wishes for you, that you’re at the dawn of your life”,...

I don’t dare think. Why have all those years gone by? In my house many cats followed one another. The first one is even stuffed. Mum and one of my two unmarried aunts, her sisters, who had always been living with us, died. The other aunt, is knocking on ninety now, she collects the letters (not many at this point) and takes care of the present-day, affectionate, big cat (what’s more castrated, for force majeure) which I hope it will stay with us still for a long time.

The never-ending and passionate link with my landscapes, with the old and suggestive farm machinery (which have become now collector’s pieces), with hills and thorn bushes full of blackberries, traitorous and loud streams. My relationships with operatic and symphonic music, with old films (I knew all, in particular I remember the old cinema in the 30s and 40s, I used to repeat by heart hundreds of casts, including minor roles), with the boost in my collection of photos and autographs (I would have met many of my favourite celebrities and some of them would have left me his/her things for testamentary legacy, for example Andreina Pagnani, do you remember her as Mrs Maigret on tv?) … they would have brought me to a solitude that would have become my joy and my affliction at the same time.

I felt like a little king for my acquaintances and I was showered with curious and incredulous compliments, especially from adults, but the girls little trusted that peer so unusual, who looked like Lucio Battisti (now, I’m more like Luca Zingaretti) and he could even ask if they knew Mirto Picchi o Isa Miranda. 

I succeeded to convince to sing just Mirto Picchi, great tenor, little mentioned today. He sang only for me, some pieces of the mentioned “Norma” by Bellini, that many times he had performed beside Maria Callas all over the world, except for that unlucky evening. Me, the only privileged spectator, in his beautiful living-room, near Ponte Vecchio, in Florence.

What emotion! That sentence with the final top tone “l’amor tuo mi rassicura e il tuo dio sfidar sapròoooooo” (“your love reassures me and I’ll be able to tempt your god”), it was music for my ears! Then he told me “I don’t know how you have succeeded to convince me, I’ve never sung neither for my father nor  for my mother.” Goodbye forever, Mirto, a heartful thanks to you. Your photo with a dedication is on show, framed, among all the others in my living-room, which I must even dust, sometimes.  

Perhaps you’ll laugh, as my schoolmates did (just them, who nowadays adults and grizzled, come to my exhibitions to congratulate me very generously), however some great personalities, stepped into my life year by year, did not laugh. Among them, an intellectual of considerable standing, Prof. Rosetta Caccialupi, Guglielmo Barnabò’s stepdaughter, the famous character actor of the “white phones”, from Ancona him too.
Goodbye and thank you for all, Rosetta! Goodbye Guglielmo! I couldn’t meet you, but I know you like very much the flowers that I sometimes bring you. I wonder if, while you were shooting those popular films with Alida Valli and Vittorio De Sica, you could foresee this unusual fan, who was yet to come. Finally, you must know that, by now, it’s a rite for me putting on your personal watch in my inaugurations. 

These things, dear friends, can’t be forgotten, and they have been influencing inevitably and indelibly my photos, my wishes, my life itself. However, positively, I can say, why not? Certainly, I don’t regret anything. So, just the photography was necessary to unify everything. But how? Be more explicit, you’ll say. I can’t tell you how, don’t ask too much of me, the main thing is that you look at my photos, at least those I’ll show you.

Perhaps my fault (call it like that) was that I’ve wanted everything in my likeness, with that bit of understandable and (I hope) forgivable selfishness typical of my zodiacal sign (Lion). The countless farm houses I snapped and showed at first were always beautiful, coloured and with that blue sky in the background. Believe me, I’ll never be able to forget those days, those silences, the skies under which I was growing and I became aware of so much beauty, those joys and tears, the reddish threshers, those top tones, the phone calls (“the lady is not at home, call later”), the postmen’s mailers, the weepy endings of certain films (do you remember “Lydia, l’amante dimenticata”: “Lydia, the forgotten lover”, beamed on 22nd July 1968?), a short about a beautiful friendship between two animals (two squirrels?) called Jani and Elsa, seen short time later!

The two animals went away, forever, towards the unknown, linked by their close friendship, on the notes of a nostalgic refrain, just like a Provençal trouvère, and the narrator informed that “solo il vento conosce i loro segreti” (“only the wind knows their secrets”). 

I’m moved, lads, I’m feeling stomach pains. Perhaps I need the Peridòn? I beg you not to laugh, otherwise … do what you want … I don’t care by now! Perhaps my series of the “Uomo in nero” (“Man in black”) is derived unconsciously from that story? But, that solitary and mysterious man, who is often wearing a scarf (like the Fellini of Milo Manara), he’s almost always alone and doesn’t want nobody (more or less), he often turns his back and he seldom turns round, maybe he’s afraid or is too much sure of himself, who knows?

Here I am, over fifty, slaphead that facilitates cervical; my schoolmates have changed and that old duffer at volleyball doesn’t care any more about bagher by now and he has become, guess what, a regular gym-goer for over twenty years.

What a lot of things I’ve done in my life! “I don’t know myself any more“, I could say, paraphrasing Aldo De Benedetti. 

Lots of photo exhibitions, all prepared with two hands and ten fingers, in prestigious locations too, also my lifelong favourite celebrities have begun to pose for my camera; Marche TV news sometimes shows up; nice and hand-picked people (at least in my town) don’t turn their nose up at my inaugurations.
Some eminent critics are taking an interest in my production and I sometimes promise them, for a dare or enjoyment, to organize an exhibition with the title “The kiss” (yes, just like the mute film of Greta Garbo) or “Decaying twigs” or “Reed leant by the wind” (in this way Grazia Deledda’s followers won’t have objections) or “The flutter of the bird” (oh no, there’s already a film with Ornella Muti) or “Lost lovers” (well, there’s that masterpiece of Marcel Carnè with the original title Les Enfants du Paradis), etc.
Perhaps “The mistery of the red threshing” (nice!) or “The yellow tractor” (when I was a child I was impressed by the thunderous Ansaldo-Fossati, often used in threshings) or better, “My visions” (but certainly somebody will have already used this title, don’t you think?).                    

An expert told me “I’ll never write about you, you’re too much complicated!” Is this one an excuse? He’s been probably upset by my collages and the double overlap of faces and figures, on which I’ve been working by now quite regularly…

Thank you for your attention, dear friends, turn up when you want, but I beg you heartily to not thwart my harmony and my dreams. If you ring for me, you must expect that I’ll throw on you the cloak of the Conte di Luna of “Il Trovatore” or of Lord Enrico Ashton in “Lucia” of Lammemoor or even of Belphegor and I could ask you to pose for me wearing a costume; also a bathing costume?, you may wonder, well, do as you like! Moreover, you must know that even Naomi Campbell could risk to stay alone, considering her difficult character, who can resist? 

Finally, please, be good, don’t embarrass me too much, asking me about photograph: what type of camera I generally use (I don’t sometimes remember it, not even me!), if I’ve ever changed the shutter (what is it?) or if I follow the latest technical innovations (and who thinks about it?), if and when I pass to digital photography (some hope!), if a Canon is better than a Nikon, if I’ve ever printed my photos (no! I’ve never cared about it, an expert engages in it, on my suggestions, naturally), if I generally use the camera tripod (it’s still in its container) and, finally, try to avoid too many words of advice, please. “Absurd vice” of many photographers, especially of those unsatisfied. Good but often dull sorts.  

Remember that, after many years, I can’t sometimes insert properly the roll, causing smudges and overlappings and smudges with outstanding abstract effects. Moreover, only recently, I’ve finally realized to have in my hands a “Reflex”, whose definition, actually, I must still memorize.  
   
Take me for what I am, a photographer by mistake, “it’s hard to tell how” (my dear Pirandello, I haven’t forgotten you), perhaps a bit absolutist, an unyielding and hardly malleable aesthete, a solitary and tenacious researcher, born under a bright sun, but at the same time, a lover of night and mystery.    

If you’re gentle and inspired, you’ll win my favour, it could begin a beautiful friendship, and the only toll that you couldn’t dodge would be learning by heart all Greta Garbo’s films, with the respective casts and the lay-out of the belts of old threshers.      

Maybe, now and then, also a roam through cemeteries!
No, please, don’t go away, I beg you …! This time, I spare you …  
Fond greetings and my most heartfelt wishes to all of you.