From above, the Grand Canyon ceases to be an abyss: it becomes a surface.
Its geological layers appear as abstract, fluid, and organic brushstrokes, with a warm palette shifting between ochre, rust, and copper.
The light enhances the reliefs, yet the overall impression is almost painterly or topographic.
The canyon walls no longer seem carved, but folded.
A fabric of curved and concentric lines draws a geological map made of pressure and time, as if the landscape had stored the memory of the world within its body.
It’s a vision that flattens depth and reveals a hidden code: folds, veins, and shades chasing each other like layers of an earthly papyrus.
The canyon is no longer a wound, it is almost a script: the silent map of an ancient skin, marked by millennia.
Born in Milan on November 28, 1977, I’ve been living in Bormio for many years, where I work as a ski instructor and draw endless inspiration from the surrounding mountains and nature.
Photography, to me, is not just about representation, it’s about interpretation.
Many of my..
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