The sun finds it way through the velvet black shadows. Posters advertise operas I won’t get to see. Padre Pio forever in the background, his face found in taxi cabs, on walls, in churches, in caffes. Chiaroscuro lighting from sunlight mixed with shadows. My Rian, he’ll remain beautiful forever in the sun here.
Hanging bronze dye pasta, bufalo mozzarella from campania, rows of inviting rum-soaked baba cakes filled with rummy yellow cream, tiny wild strawberries, Sfogliatelle.
Stunning churches, colorful architecture, dark and ancient looking alleyways filled with street theatre and trash on the street… the extremes of modern Napoli.
A baroque awning, layers of brick from different centuries, buildings and façades built on top of each other, a neapolitan girl on her mobile, another caffe beckoning the passersby.
Hanging fruit and ripe red campania tomatoes and an early pasieggetta.
Ancient pillars in residential neighborhoods, forming millennia old foundations.
Another beautiful church front and a charming caffe.
Bursts of color and brightness and the scent of glorious coffee floating in the air at every turn.
I always seem to find the caffes… I always feel like I’m on some unspoken mission to drink the best coffee.
When the little girl walked by I knew I had to capture her in that moment of contrasts and colors.
There is so much to see, just to read on the walls.
I like when the graffiti becomes art.
Back to this fellow. I remember his likeness on other walls on other visits to Naples.
Mirrors and antiques and the scrawlings every where.
A delightful music shop.
Spaccanapoli, the old Greek section of Napoli, Italy is a recurring fascination of mine.
A closed boulangerie with a broom leaning against the store front. Painted pastoral scenes on plates. Rusted piping and peeling posters. Grafitti in bright colors.
Caffe chairs sprinkled throughout the back streets of Spaccanapoli.
Two “lovers” embracing in front of an iconic “second hand shop” full of Neapolitan treasures overseen by a curious little dog.
The simple cafe tables and chairs in front of artisan shops and caffes with a sculpture of an old man in the background.
Every day life in an alleyway; people, a truck delivering goods, empty vegetable and fruit crates, the golden mustard apartments and hanging laundry.
I love the corners and crevices and surprising bursts of yellow in between the rust.
The quintessential graffiti of Naples, as ancient as the tags and scribblings on Pompeiian walls.
The old guard and the ‘new art’.
More graffiti, and the vespas and cars and Neapolitans seem all the more nonchalant about it.
A whole street filled with beautiful second hand and rare book shops and musical instruments and conservatories. I never wanted to leave.
A gorgeously appointed restaurant, intimate, and romantic in a baroque neapolitan way. I could have lingered for hours with a glass of nero d’avola and flirted, but I had less than a day to shoot Naples because of all the rain prior to this day.
This is a wider shot of the restaurant. It looks like an opening to another, older world. I told you it was beautiful.
Even the scribbles are a crying out and bleed every color onto wood and stone and brick.
The priest or monk, graffiti iconography and protest.
I found this hollowed out frame and the lettering and font (name of the one time King) very delicate and beautiful looking.
I know Napoli isn’t for everyone. I know street grafitti on historical buildings can be a bit of a shock. But once you visit Naples a few times and fall into the rhythm of the city and of its people, the fright wears off and you begin to see the color is all the more bright in contrast to the shadows. If you are like me and find beauty in decaying things and centuries of history piled up on top of each other, you may just find yourself falling in love with the heart stealer of baroque Napoli.
All photographs shot on portra 400 and 800 – 35mm film. Shot in the Spring of 2013.
Written on a spring 2013 trip to Napoli with my husband, Rian, a man who could point out the brightest spark of life in the darkest corner with eagle eye precision. He had a penchant for passion and color and beauty unrivaled by anyone I’ve met in my life, yet he was soft spoken and bookish, content mostly to admire the masterpieces of life in quiet contemplation. When he imparted historical details to us it was always in a storyteller’s voice, transporting you back in time, until you almost felt as though you had experienced the battles or the love affairs or great triumphs and small defeats your self, centuries ago.
With Naples it was simply impossible for us to truly tire of the dark, craggy, cramped, decaying alleyways of Napoli. Because we found find them so beautiful. What is that expression? Life in the streets. But that’s not subtle enough. That has no emotion. No color. No fragrance. I’m just an American who falls in love with corners of places. Pages in books. The picture I see in everything. What do I know about it? Not much. But I loved it all the same. We loved it together. Without him I have yet to return, but I know in my heart I still love it because our love for it together could not burn away, not ever, not even in the deep void I hold within due to his earthly absence. I’m returning again soon I hope, because of love, because of him, and because of beauty. The hope of beauty, and the beauty of hope.
I photographed a little group of 11-13 year old Neapolitan boys smoking on the beach for the first time after they robbed a sweets cart of cigarettes like in some 1950s or 1960s Truffaut or Fellini film. The unofficial leader of the gang, a tall blond boy, taught the other boys how to smoke after they bummed cigarettes off a pair of kissing teenagers, and robbed a food cart and cafe of crisps and chocolates. Later we happened upon some typical boys playing football in the corner of a small piazza. The scent of coffee carried on the sea air, the salt so thick you can taste it on your tongue, and we searched for a restaurant in this gastronomical paradiso.
Naples is the flower of paradise. The last adventure of my life. Alexandre Dumas
There is a residential “street”, an off the beaten path alleyway with the delightfully macabre name of Vico Purgatorio Ad Arco, “Purgatory Lane”. I had a love affair with alleyways, you see, and never have I been more sated than in Napoli.
Every narrow opening makes you stop and turn and take in the sights and sounds of Naples. There’s something very beautiful about an alley way, something personal and old, full of secrets and stories and the every day life of strangers. I love the alleys of Boston and New York and New Orleans. Naples alley ways are incomparable because they are places people live to catch sunlight in the darkest places. Neapolitans hang their laundry on little racks on tiny iron balconies. They stack pretty painted clay pots and urns full of flowers. They tie little flags and bunting. The alleys are dark and dank and should be places for trash and death and forgetting. But they are walk ways. They are corners to stop for a moment and discuss the weather with your neighbor. They are short cuts and open windows and the sounds of football playing on an unseen television. They are windows across from cousins and lovers looking at each other when their parents are busy cooking or cleaning. They are the sounds of getting ready for the evening pasieggeta. They are as I had always imagined them: gritty, velvet thick, enchanting, private glimpses of the real Napoli.
There is the foreboding sign which points in the direction of Purgatory Lane. Most people would cross the street to avoid it. But we were different, weren’t we, you and I, Rian? That made it all the more inviting to us all those years ago. Entering purgatory was like stepping back in time. Even in the midst of the buzz of modern life around us.
Kids played football in the streets, they ran through the alleys laughing and dodging each other. Vespas and motorcycles lined the private walks to the apartments. There were surprising flourishes of pinks and golds and soft blues among the blacks and browns. Colors and shadows mixed. We walked through unnoticed. Life was there, the good and the bad. We were just tourists.
Anaïs Nin once said, “I don’t want to be a tourist in the world of images.”
We wanted to step into the picture and become a part of it.
But until I am gone, I am always on the other side of the lens, watching, capturing, stealing images like the thief that I am. I stalk moments and feelings. I want trouble and grit to make something beautiful out of it. I am selfish, a little bit soulless, in my pursuit of another perfect shot. Perhaps the right kind of person for a purgatory?
I chase strangers with the cunning of a secret admirer. I photograph statues like living things and people like sculptures. I cannot tell the difference between the saints and the sinners on the streets.
