Is photography a form of collecting?

These considerations arose while I was reading a book on art collecting (the catalog of the exhibition The Pizzi collection, a seventeenth-century picture gallery - FMR editore) and while I was reading a sort of examination on the psychology of the collector, I asked myself: but then, is photography also in a certain sense a form of collecting? And by this I don't mean someone who dedicates himself to hanging refined art photographs on the walls of his house, I really mean the act of photographing, the process of taking photographs and then keeping them in order and with care in his personal archive.

Why do we photograph? Personally, I photograph to capture an emotion, to capture an aspect of the beauty that surrounds me, so photographing is a sort of collection of emotions, and like a collector I go around looking for these emotions, carefully looking for places full of beauty, places able to offer the emotions I'm looking for, and therefore that I photograph with care, trying to capture the best side of what captures my attention.

And then the act of collecting does not end with the shot, once at home, the photographs taken are carefully selected, put in order and then "arranged", retouched, suitably manipulated, because photography is not a mere mechanical exercise of cataloging of reality, it must ultimately be a mirror of our soul, therefore naked and raw photography, physical reality, must be adapted, must be shaped, must be enriched with the contents of our feelings, with our emotions, with our thoughts, one's visions, one's anxieties and one's dreams, because the landscape one wants to photograph is not what is out there, but what is inside here, inside us, and the landscape is essentially a mirror of it, we try ourselves reflected in the world around us.

Just as a collector, any collector, through the objects that he collects, that he searches for, that he chooses with meticulous care and that he puts on display with satisfaction in his own home, in this way tells about himself and his passions, his life and of his dreams, so a photographer collects emotions and moments of life, which tell about themselves, their interiority and their ideals. Through collecting, one's home becomes a sort of museum where one's soul is put on display, often one's ideal of life, one's spirit that guides, more or less consciously, the most sublime and creative actions of one's existence . So our collection, our home, becomes a kind of autobiography that can sometimes be a thousand times more exhaustive than a river of words and for those who take photography, their archive becomes their autobiography, the story of their soul and its enrichment, of one's own path and of one's instinctive and authentic predispositions.

"... prefers to choose, in the paintings, the sole protagonist, the single voice, a sky that darkens over the livid body of a martyr in a bold glimpse, imaginative vagueness, the theme of purification, seduction, almost considering that those paintings will not be exhibited in a museum where opposing and rival works, by subject and style, are compared, but will be expressed, in the reserved context of one's own home, in front of an amateur in a state of grace to whom the agile air of youth , pathos or voluptuousness, frenzy or gracility, indiscreet psychology and the pure ideal of beauty, an intense or unadorned place painted by different masters will cause an insinuating wink, an exciting attraction that makes one squint and pour in aesthetic pleasure soliciting the innermost and darkest sides of the imagination." (words by Lucia Fornari Schianchi, from the previously cited catalogue).

These words, referring to a collector of period paintings, extrapolated, seem to me to fit perfectly even those who dedicate themselves to photography, those like me who collect emotions and visions, those who in the privacy of their comfortable home carve their photographs up to to obtain that image that he has in mind and that satisfies his aesthetic enjoyment, that image in which his movements of the soul are reflected. Who among you does not feel involved in these words, in this almost poetic description of collecting ?

Naturally this speech applies to those lucky enough to photograph for passion and pleasure, probably it is less true for those who make photography their job: it is one thing to follow one's passions and dreams, another is having to submit to requests to have to sell products, and collecting is always the result of a great passion!

"Finally, and it is the royal category of truly great collectors, there is the pure amateur type. The pure amateur is a cultured man, of course. He is a person who has read many books and seen many things It is not necessary that he is an art historian. Indeed, it is better that he is not because professional specialization must come "after" and not "before". First there must be "falling in love" and that is that mysterious quid that bind the eye that sees to the thing that is seen." (words by Antonio Paolucci, from the previously cited catalogue). And I love what I photograph, I would never photograph things that don't involve me, if I did I would get bad results, I tried and it's just so ! When I travel, when I walk, when I explore, when I practice that kind of "hunt" which is the practice of photography, it happens that I am seized by sudden "mystical visions": it is as if a dart hurled by some mysterious cupid struck me lightning-fast to the heart, a wound that I can only heal by sublimating that vision in a photograph, and the heart continues to bleed if I don't succeed!

Is the photographer, therefore, at least psychologically, a collector? I think so, great! A collector, a visionary, a perennial lover... in short, a madman!

So much so that my collector's instinct is also expressed in other collections, for example in collecting Tarot cards, stones and stones, miniatures of medieval toy soldiers, books and other amenities. Then the books are a real "confession", the bookcase is an open window on one's inner life, my books like my photographs are literally a spiritual testament. A book that I didn't like, that doesn't fit my way of being, I don't keep it in the bookstore, I don't even keep it at home, I try to resell it or give it away as soon as possible.

The photographs I have chosen to accompany these words were taken on Christmas day 2022, as I walked down the road towards the Cisa pass, one of my favorite "hunting" territories when there are foggy days like these. In fact, the road straddles some valleys, rising above them, offering panoramic balconies and often breathtaking views of landscapes that seem wild and primordial. If it weren't for the street itself in the shots, it would in fact seem to be in some wild and remote place on the planet. Instead, we straddle the Val Taro, Val Sporzana and Val Baganza, in the Parma Apennines.

They are smoky landscapes, with indefinite borders, where the elements, where sky and earth seem to dialogue and mix, where the lights mysteriously play with the darkness, somewhat dark landscapes with dramatic tones, which I particularly love. They are landscapes that I always gladly collect, a real nourishment for my elusive and indefinable soul, like these mists.

These landscapes are my mirror.