
"Beigua Natural Park"
Studies on a liminal condition.
How can a place shape the way we perceive the world?
In the heart of Liguria, suspended between the sea and the Alps, rocks from an ancient ocean floor coexist with vast beech forests, where winds and air currents create ever-changing, ethereal atmospheres. This is the Beigua Natural Park, the largest protected area in the region.
Within this landscape, over the course of many years, experience and imagination gradually became intertwined in ways that were not entirely rational. Veiled by delicate mist and soft light, trees and rocks seem almost to observe us, evoking feelings that are both wondrous and unsettling.
In an attempt to better understand this experience, I began exploring the history of the area, discovering a network of prehistoric rock engravings that testify to an ancient human presence and suggest the ritual significance this landscape held as early as the Neolithic period.
These discoveries led me to see Beigua as a place where geology, history and imagination continue to overlap, blurring the boundary between landscape and suggestion.
As the project developed, I decided to include a series of verses drawn from notes written on site. Photography and writing allowed me to engage with the same experience in two different ways: through the immediate and symbolic language of images, and through the reflective and evocative nature of words.
This process changed the way I experience the park, making me more aware of what unfolds both within me and around me.
"A silence broken
by the seeping of the earth,
which makes itself new
every winter
now sodden
now white
now green and yellow
dry
like the sound
of when it breaks
only to sing at last
pregnant
by the spring sun."


"I keep nothing
of when
I watched the mists
migrate.
In the bath
of damp thoughts
I reach out my hand,
but every finger
is illusion."
"On the slopes,
an echo
a presence
the valley.
Bare
I turn toward that clearing.
There are no shelters
in the Ligurian woods."



"A stream gushes
from that blooming rock
carved
by weary ochre
onto sodden hands.
I grow drunk on it, and sing:
it is the scent of thunder."

















