Michele Brunetti

I really like it—I just need to understand why! Taking my camera around, pulling it out of my pocket, snapping a shot, hearing the film roll, or seeing the flash light up the scene with people turning to look because they noticed—and me acting casual, like a cat after it falls. I find this fun, I could say. Then you go to the developer, who asks how you want it done, and you wait a few days for the photos to come back. And then, you have to check to see what you really captured, only to find that all—or at least many—of the photos aren’t quite what you imagined. They’re not what you expected, not how you thought they’d turn out when you took them. But this doesn’t bother me; in fact, this is exactly what I like. The way the camera adds something of its own, how it participates in the creation, giving a unique touch to each photo. And honestly, I love it—what can I say? Among these photos, there’s one I took with a Canon Autoboy S loaded with Fujifilm 200 film. It’s of two girls crossing the street at night, and I used the flash.

I recently spent ten days in Italy, returning after a long time away. As usual, I was swamped with things to take care of, so every day was filled with meetings and endless errands. Italy greeted me with unexpected rain and cold. I had come seeking that warm, majestic Italian sun under an endless blue sky—a comforting embrace of light that you never tire of. But no luck. Just gray skies and rain. From Milan, I traveled to Como to visit my mother, then to Lugano to see friends, Florence to stay with more friends, Bologna to catch up with old work colleagues, and finally, Rome to my own place. Then back to Como, Milan, and, at last, homeward bound. In between, I managed a move, tried to sort out taxes, mailed documents, sold a car, canceled insurance—the usual web of bureaucratic tasks that make you want to give up on it all. Ah, Italy. I’ve been taking photos since I was a teenager. My first camera, bought with a little saved allowance, was a small digital Canon (still somewhere to my mother’s place). My second, a compact Fujifilm, was stolen when my house was broken into. And on it

In China, there are an extraordinary number of museums. I recently visited the Zhejiang Art Museum in Hangzhou on a Sunday, and it was packed.  There’s something deeply reassuring about seeing people visit museums. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but each time I watch someone step into a space dedicated to art, it fills me with a sense of hope for humanity. Perhaps it’s the simple act of taking time for contemplation that makes me feel like we still care about beauty, reflection, and our connection to the past. For me, visiting a museum is more than just a casual pastime: it nourishes me. Every time I leave, I feel invigorated, as though something inside me has been reignited. It’s almost a physical sensation, similar to how I feel after a good massage. My blood flows better, my mind feels lighter, and my body straightens up. I walk with my back a little straighter, as if the weight of the world has lessened. The world outside the museum appears more serene, more humane, as though the act of seeing art has soothed the edges of everyday life. Being in an art-filled space reshapes how I engage with