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----- Death of Aldo Moro -----
1978 - 2026

I go up to the first floor. In the next window there is another colleague, Rolando Fava from ANSA, then Maurizio Piccirilli, and a cameraman from Tele GBR (private television in Rome). The street begins to fill with agents, confusion, and a low hum of voices, but you can sense the epicenter immediately: it is a red Renault 4. The rumor is that they have found a homeless man, dead and abandoned. I start shooting, and I am shooting in color. An officer approaches the car and opens the side door. But in that instant, I see Cossiga arrive—the Minister of the Interior at the time—I shoot again, then the crowd of agents nears the Renault and one policeman turns around and puts a hand to his face, in despair. Simultaneously, from the television turned on in the apartment where I was, an announcement is heard: "News is reaching us this instant that the body of Honorable Moro has been found in Via Caetani." And I was right there, so it was him in the car. From the street, a policeman sees me, points his gun at me, and orders me to come down and hand over the rolls of film. I withdraw from the window and follow the scene through the reflection on the glass. I have only one camera with me and three lenses: a 35, a 50, and above all, a 200. I am the only one who has it. But at that point, the owner of the house, frightened, kicks me out. I leave and climb onto the roof of the building. From above, I see the arrival of the bomb squad. There is a fear that the Red Brigades have booby-trapped the car.
continue...I lean out, but it is too dangerous. I run down and, in the absolute chaos, I slip back into the house from before and the owner doesn't even notice. I put on the 200 and it is like being a few centimeters away from the scene. The bomb squad tears open the tailgate; I shoot; they open it. I remove the color roll and hide it in my underwear. I put the black and white back in. A blanket appears, the medical examiner arrives and uncovers the body; I shoot. The mass of policemen then pours toward the car and other agents try to push their colleagues back. I shoot, then hide the film again. I still want some color, and at this point, I only have tungsten film left—bluish outdoors—but I put it in anyway. I frame Moro again. I rewind the roll. Then, in B&W, I capture the arrival of the ambulance and the body being taken away. Last images and a mad dash to the lab. I do not lose sight of the films for a single second. Now I have them in my hands, the images. They are already at the Associated Press for the black and white. Then I go to Time with the color photos and I get the cover. Late in the evening, at home, Gamma calls me—at the time, the agency of my dreams. They offer me a contract. In the middle of the night, a private plane arrives, and at seven in the morning, the negatives are in Paris. And on that flight, my second life begins.

Ps. Copy & Paste
https://www.giansanti.com/video



© archive manunzio


The strength of those hands, etched with deep furrows and engaged in the ritual of cunserv' (tomato in bottle for winter seanson when in old time never tomato is possible to made any recipe), tells a story that crosses and connects generations.

This image captures a moment of the domestic tomato ritual from a place here in Lucania in southern Italy, where a "cunserv' p' l'invern'" (stock tomato for winter) was both a necessity and an art (again, for example, a tall and shapely aunt tried to do in New York in the Sixties) like (other memory) the wine made by Agostino Coppola from Bernalda, in the province of Matera—who, in the 1920s, produced wine in the basement of his New York apartment building—this quintessentially female ritual represents an identity that Generation Z is entirely unaware of.

The Rendering of the Film: The chromatic density of the EPR 64 slide emerges with that deep blue that only the chemistry of the last century could deliver, preserved here by the reproduction made with my faithful iPhone "sketchbook".

The 135mm lens Zeiss, used in this shoot, on the Contax RTS isolated the moment with surgical precision, transforming domestic labor into a Mandala of pure concentration, free from distractions.
The Invisible Retouch: The intervention of the "trained silicon" acted like my uncle's that via pencil, on the inclined table, retouched the negative for studio-portrait as Hollywood scene essence, eliminating those intruders that were impossible to remove on location at the time of the shoot in the 1970s.
Professional Technique: Despite the use of Photoshop Elements, the structure of the image maintains that analog dignity belonging to my professional history with Ferrania and its specific surfaces.









Minamata...Eugene Smith
[center][font2]https://www.gabrieledonati.net/2021/07/29/eugene-smith-e-minamata/


Ps. Copy and past. Please note that is a italian post, again, if prefer translate
in English use you browser and select suitable language


© archive manunzio



"Occhio come mestiere"—the eye as a trade. This is not just a title from the 1970s; it is my reality. Like the craftsman described by Calogero Cascio (italian photographer of street or reportage tout court), I don’t just "take" a picture (as sayd Ansel Adams photographer); I make it with an eye that has been trained since the analog era to see what is invisible to the machine.
When I look, in this case before and after editing at right, I see a shadow that has ceased to be a mere absence of light. It has become a volto—a profile, a silent witness carved into the peach-colored plaster by the sun. While the silicon "terraglia" of modern sensors sees only a luminance value to be leveled or a pattern to be filled with 1s and 0s, my eye recognizes the gaze of the building itself. This shadow-face has a weight that digital algorithms can never replicate because it depends entirely on the living, fleeting relationship between the stone and the sky.
By cutting the "inopportune" light, as if shielding the lens from a false, I allow the true character of the silence to speak. It is the interiority of a city made visible found in the geometry of a beautiful day. The beast of automation as silicon offers a dead perfection, but to truly "hit" the mark, one must look with the heart, the lungs, and the gut. It is a craft of the spirit (The Little Prince of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry) where the diagonal line of a roof isn't just a shape, but a breath.





© archive manunzio


Yesterday, today and of tomorrow there is no certainty...
When Kapital (with a 'K' as in killer, remember it!), with intelligence that is, to say the least, deceptively complex, enacts Montale's (an italian poety) diurnal comedy, it happens that facts, faces, and the lived experience that precedes the day—let alone years or decades, abomination!—are lost not only, or not so much, from the memory of those who were there, but above all as a collective custom.
And let us be clear that on this and much else, Kapital wallows in delight for the masses, not for those with the fine eye who see the "wallowing" sewage. In short, were it not for Photography, which with all its allure—and let's say all of it—we would continue in an Eternal Present, and let us not pursue further into the "distinction" of the usual living dead who pontificate from morning to night on the television's stagnant water, let alone the Web: Tombola, oops 'à la page' Bingo.
And returning to the image of those stratifications of "things" enclosed, well, in a snapshot. A location of the image no longer existing, remodeled upon the various diurnal and "hygienic frozen" fish, yes those hard and long ones... and ask no more. A collective ritual at the current frozen pace: a metaphoric side or however it seems most fitting to you, anatomy aside. Perhaps.


© archive manunzio

The image presents itself as a fragment extracted from a stratified timeline. In the foreground (PP), two female figures impose themselves upon the public space of the square, framed against the architectural silhouette of the Teatro Francesco Stabile. This is not merely a photograph; it is an "archaeological" where ancient religious tradition and civil volunteerism touch without ever fully merging. On one side, the profile of a veil evokes an archaic, almost hieratic religiosity; on the other, the direct, inquisitive gaze of a Red Cross nurse. The latter shatters the "fourth wall" of the liturgical rite to lock eyes with the lens, transforming the photographer from a mere observer into a witness called to account.

Credit must be given where it is due: the Olympus Camedia C-5050 played its part in this miracle. A pioneer of the early digital era (circa 2002), this machine succeeded thanks to its f/1.8 lens—a generous aperture that "swallowed" the dying light of dusk. The CCD sensor, with its tonal response so close to the density of film, provided the raw material: an organic grain, never clinical, which restores the texture of the skin and the weight of the black fabric. It is the instrument that allowed for the isolation of the subjects from the shapeless mass of the crowd, creating a three-dimensionality that only high-quality glass can confer.

Forget spotlights or raking sunlight, because here, the light is omnidirectional, typical of the "blue hour" transition between day and night. It comes from nowhere because it wraps around everything. It is a democratic, flat light that creates no harsh shadows but models faces with extreme delicacy. In this context, the work of the "manico" (the photographer) was to make a definitive choice: manipulating the file in post-production to emphasize the whites of the headpieces, turning them into beacons in the gloom.
Behind this shot lies a "Catholic background, though hardly apostolic and not at all Roman." It is the gaze of one who observes liturgy with distance. The blurred arm in the lower right is a dynamic element of disturbance that breaks the stasis of two thousand years of history and anchors everything in the "here and now." It is the necessary imperfection that validates the truth of the image.

In conclusion, this photo is an addendum to a career begun in 1969. It is the meeting point between analog experience (the ability to read light where others see only darkness) and the versatility of early 2000s digital tech. I've if possible transformed a street demonstration into a narrative work where white plastic chairs coexist with the solemnity of faces. It is a testimony to how a person, armed with a proper tool and a millennial historical memory, still manages to freeze time an instant before the night swallows it whole.


© archive manunzio

The Bus StopThis photograph captures a universal ritual. It is not about a specific location or a technical data sheet; it is about the moment before something happens.

The Composition: The image is divided by a strong perspective. On the left, a solid wall and the people; on the right, the empty road stretching into the distance. This creates a visual tension between staying and going.

The Subject: We see silhouettes, not faces. They represent anyone, from New York to London, from Rome to Bangladesh, who has ever waited for a journey to begin. The suitcases and the turned backs emphasize a sense of detachment and anticipation that belongs to every traveler.

The BUS Sign: The word painted on the asphalt in the foreground acts as the title of the scene. It is upside down for the viewer but correctly oriented for the incoming vehicle, marking the exact spot where the wait ends.

The Light: The soft, vignetted edges focus the attention on the center, removing unnecessary distractions. It is a clean shot of a simple, daily human routine, stripped of any identifiers of the here and now.

In a world full of disposable images via cellulars, this photo chooses to show the silence and the space of the wait, rather than the noise of the arrival.



© archive manunzio


Lourdes a Mary

The photograph captures a moment of quiet intensity within a moving crowd. A woman in a wheelchair is the central focus, her expression one of deep internal reflection as she is guided forward by a figure in religious attire. The use of black and white emphasizes the interplay of light and shadow, drawing the eye toward the textures of the clothing and the clarity of the subjects' faces against a blurred background.
The composition relies on a strong diagonal movement that suggests progress through a busy environment. While the surroundings are rendered with a sense of motion, the stillness in the woman’s posture creates a psychological anchor for the viewer. Technical elements like the soft transition of grey tones and the highlight on the white veil provide a sense of depth and volume, reminiscent of high-sensitivity film.
The bag resting on the woman’s lap and the grip of the hands on the wheelchair add layers of tangible detail to the narrative. The overall atmosphere is one of dignity and shared purpose, isolated from the chaos of the crowd by a deliberate use of selective focus and contrast.





© archive manunzio


Libera nos a malo (captured with an Olympus C-5050)
This series of high-contrast (printed on inkjet via Canon Pro-200)prints on untreated watercolor paper serves as a "forensic record "of the human subject's disappearance into the urban. The work is demonstrating that the act of writing (in case shoots) remains a human prerogative, independent of the medium.
The visual language draws from the photographer's formative immersion in classic italian comics (Black Macigno, Capitan Miki, Tex Willer) and the legacy of Kodalith, applying these aesthetics to a radical removal of mid-tones ( look as 70's). This image from a long sequence, documents a world where the subject is overwritten by man-made entropy, transitioning from organic matter to a state of silicon.

Each print have a the red stamp “Libera nos a malo” acts as a final certification, an exorcism against the reduction of life into code.






This photograph functions as a visual collision between two disparate timelines. In the foreground, the sharp, monolithic presence of the friar, Padre Vitale, acts as a spiritual anchor. His profile is captured with a surgical clarity that emphasizes the texture of his age and the rigidity of his resolve—the "Roman Apostolic" discipline you mentioned. He isn't merely a spectator; he is a landmark, a permanent fixture of the Land watching the fleeting movement of the world.

The cyclist, rendered through a deliberate panning motion, represents the ephemeral. He is a blur of modern materials and kinetic energy, attempting to outrun the very stillness that the friar embodies. To an eye trained in the "tricks" of the set, the composition is almost too perfect: the red barrier serves as a definitive horizon line, separating the gritty reality of the pavement from the historical and spiritual backdrop of the village.

While the cyclist sways in the wind of progress, Padre Vitale remains an unyielding "rough edge," a guardian of the Saturday catechism who knows exactly where the game is being played. It is a portrait of the observer who cannot be bypassed, no matter how fast one pedals.




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