Luana and I arrived in Milan carrying the weight of weeks that had asked too much from both of us. More work was already waiting when we returned, but for a few days, we wanted to step outside that rhythm. Sometimes you travel not to discover something new, but to recover a part of yourself that became quiet along the way.

There was no assignment and no schedule to fulfil. We could walk, talk and cross the city for a good plate of carbonara. The absence of intention gave the weekend its meaning. It also created the space in which photography could return naturally.

Friendship Before Photography

I have worked with Luana many times. Although modelling is no longer an active part of her life, she continues to enter my projects with an openness I never take for granted. Over time, collaboration became friendship, and that friendship changed the way I photograph her.

You can sense when a portrait is built on trust. The body no longer performs every gesture, and the expression does not have to explain itself. Confidence can exist beside thoughtfulness. Distance can appear without becoming disconnection. I am not searching for a fixed identity in these moments. I am watching how a person moves between different versions of herself.

A House That Holds Time

Villa Necchi Campiglio seemed to slow everything around us. Its rooms carry a quiet order, preserved through the attention of many hands. Yet I did not want the architecture to overpower the human presence within it. I wanted Luana to move through the house as someone passing through time rather than posing inside history.

The compositions follow that tension. Strong lines create structure, while fabric, hair and movement interrupt it. Outdoors, the light becomes fragmented beneath the trees. Indoors, it turns softer, deeper and more private. Black and white connects these changing spaces, allowing you to notice rhythm before decoration and emotion before colour.

What the Weekend Left Behind

We had not travelled to Milan to produce a series. Perhaps that is why the photographs feel personal to me. They were not waiting inside a concept. They appeared between conversations, footsteps and the simple relief of being somewhere else.

Photography often becomes most honest when it is not asked to prove its importance. You stop directing every second and begin to recognise what is already happening. A glance over the shoulder, a moment of withdrawal, the movement of a dress across a quiet floor—each becomes part of a story that remains open.

What stayed with me was not only the beauty of the place. It was the feeling that friendship, attention and time had briefly found the same rhythm.