PM00000040000001830 15: 2012 § Leave a comment


Here one of the series I took thinking of the ‘home’ project.

Here there is me in Milan, I’m in my bedroom at my parent’s home.

The feeling of being there and meanwhile somewhere else.

Camouflage my self with the surrounding I’m in: I’m there but I’m not.


This (might) be the place

PM00000030000002930 15: 2012 § 1 Comment

Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb – burn with a weak heart
(So I) guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It’s OK I know nothing’s wrong… nothing

Hi yo, I got plenty of time
Hi yo, you got light in your eyes
And you’re standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up and say goodnight

Home – is where I want to be
But I guess I’m already there
I come home – she lifted up her wings

Guess that this must be the place
I can’t tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this where I’ll be… where I’ll be

Hi yo, we drift in and out
Hi yo, sing into my mouth
Out of all these kinds of people
You got a face with a view
I’m just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I’m dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me in the head

(This must be the place, Talking Heads)

Random thoughts of a young woman

PM00000020000004530 15: 2012 § 4 Comments

And then, one day, suddenly it happens that you start feeling that you need to build your own home, find your place, take your time.
I’m 25 years old. I come from Italy but I live in London.
I have three homes but no one is mine.
Asteys Row. My parent’s house. And my boyfriend’s roof.
Different places for different lives, different homes for different memories.
The feeling that every bed where you sleep is not yours for real.
The impression to belong to something which doesn’t belong to you anymore.
And then the impetus to cross the street, looking for your own way home.