l'oscurità, ma io ho una luce
| Digital photography | Mobile photography | Photography project 2018 ongoing | Working in progress | Book |
It all started in September 2017. Without any warning. At first, I thought it was something temporary, a passing phase that would quickly fade away.
But as the years went by, the pain transformed into a story I could no longer tell. A story of suffering, of physical, social, and emotional discomfort, that still continues today, with no visible end.
L'oscurità, ma io ho una luce is my testimony. An autobiographical work that tells of illness, resilience, pain, and the discovery of the strength and light that reside within us. After my first hospitalisation in 2018 at the Saverio De Bellis Hospital in Castellana Grotte, Puglia, which lasted 55 days, I finally managed to get out of bed. I looked at myself in the mirror, in the hospital bathroom, and saw the reflection of a woman I didn’t recognise, a stranger. "Who are you?" I asked myself, and I cried. In two months, I had lost 17 kilos, and I already weighed very little.
The physical transformation was devastating.
It all happened so suddenly, like a bolt from the blue. Life, after 26 years, took me out of my world and thrust me into an unknown dimension. In hospitals that felt like prisons, in places of the mind I had never imagined—desperation. It brought me back home, to my homeland. I had to leave everything behind: friends, work, my apartment, after eleven years in London.
I was so emaciated and dehydrated that I had no strength to open my eyes or lift my head from the pillow. My skin had thinned, my muscles had disappeared. I was helpless, worthless, unable to walk, to be independent. At times, I felt that I would rather die, that this life was no longer mine. But there was a voice inside me, urging me to find the strength to live. When I finally started to recover, I began writing. I wrote what I felt, what I thought, sometimes in Italian, sometimes in English, on scraps of paper, on napkins I found in the hospital and left on the bedside table. The words were the only things that helped me not fall into darkness. Then, I started taking photographs. Always the same. With my compact camera, or with my phone, when I had some energy. It was my way of distracting myself from the pain, of seeking some comfort. I began keeping a journal, convinced everything would turn out fine. But life kept testing me. And each time, I had to rise again. Every day brought a new challenge, a new battle. The complications have never ceased, but faith has never left me. I hope that sharing this part of my life, which will become a book (volume I), can help those facing similar situations, where understanding and confronting one’s own pain feels so difficult. Where accepting suffering seems impossible, but where, deep down, there is always a light that guides us—if we are ready to see it. Sometimes life doesn’t go as we wish, but the important thing is never to give up. At the end of the tunnel of darkness, there is always a light. Seek it, and you’ll find it’s always been there with you. Always. Because we are light. And all of us have the right to shine, as brightly as we can.
Installation | L'oscurità, ma io ho una luce | Dublin | Gallery X | 2024
What’s the meaning of all this?
Fear. Dizziness. Pain. Darkness! The criminal complicity of thoughts and emotions. Mad splinters of Being. A blade of light pierces through the darkness of my existence. Pain. Dizziness. Darkness! A gash... Behind it: darkness... and more pain! I fly towards it, it approaches, it looms large, the dull planet of my past years. Where will we land? There is no space, no gap, not a single square millimeter of sincerity in the rocky desert of my thoughts. A tunnel swallows me. Darkness. Pain. Dizziness! A small room in a provincial hospital, the smell of creolin, the stench of illness and impotence. A broken figure is kneeling before a motionless, lifeless being. I get closer.
That terrified woman is me! The room feels suffocating, the air dense with despair.
The walls close in, a crushing weight on my chest. Memories flood my mind, a torrent of images and sounds, each sharper and more painful than the last. The echo of past mistakes, regrets that cut deep. I am trapped in a whirlwind of emotions, unable to break free. The cold tiles under my knees, the sterile environment contrasts harshly with the chaos inside me. Reality slips away, leaving me in an abyss of confusion and sorrow. What’s the meaning of all this? The question echoes through the void, unanswered.
Fear. Dizziness. Pain. Darkness! The cycle repeats, an unending loop of torment. The criminal complicity of thoughts and emotions. I am a prisoner of my own mind. Yet, amid the turmoil, a faint glimmer of hope. A distant memory of a time when things were different, when life held promise. The memory is fragile, like a delicate flower in a storm, but it gives me something to hold onto. A reason to fight, to seek a way out of the darkness. I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the overwhelming despair. The journey through the dark tunnel is not over, but I will not give up. I will find the light, no matter how faint it may be. Reclaim my existence from the clutches of fear, dizziness, and pain. I am not alone in this struggle. The terrified woman I saw is me, but she is also a part of me that I can heal. What’s the meaning of all this? It is the struggle, the pain, and ultimately, the growth. For now, I take it one step at a time. Fear. Dizziness. Pain. Darkness! They are but shadows that cannot withstand the dawn.
The adult is a child who has lost the ability to dream and rejoice. This loss carries a message of healing from what we call the disease of being: unhappiness. Like many others, I have experienced it deeply, and it eventually manifested outwardly in the form of illness. But what is illness, if not the fruit of unhappiness? Negative emotions govern the world we live in—unreal, yet profoundly pervasive. Can destiny be changed? Can events take a different course? Perhaps, but to "change our destiny," we must make a radical shift: transform the psychology that underpins it—the system of beliefs and convictions we have gradually built throughout our lives.The most fearsome disease in the world resides in our conflicting thoughts. True power lies in our ability to fully possess ourselves while simultaneously surrendering to who we truly are. What we call reality is nothing more than an appearance, one that must be completely overturned, for none of it will truly accompany us. We must learn a new way of thinking, breathing, acting, and loving. It is time to abandon the conflicting vision of the world that poisons us from within. It is time to let go of everything that does not bring life so that we can be reborn. It is time for a new freedom—the greatest adventure a human being can imagine: the reconquest of one’s integrity. Every event in our lives, even the smallest, faithfully reflects our will. The world around us withers because we are withering inside. What thoughts govern us? What emotions do we direct toward ourselves and others? What do we tell ourselves each day? Our being shapes our existence. I, too, have been the sole architect of every event in my life, the cause of every suffering and misfortune. Lightening one’s being requires effort, sacrifice, and courage. It means shedding all that parents, educators, prophets of doom, and teachers of misfortune have imposed upon us since birth. From them, we learned countless ways to die. So why not choose life? The first step toward freedom—and perhaps the most difficult—is to recognise that fear tyrannises our days, our thoughts, and our silences. To achieve that special state of being, made of freedom, knowledge, and power, years of work on oneself are needed. It is essential to learn to forgive oneself, with gentleness and patience. This means going into the deepest folds of one’s existence, where it remains torn, and finding the courage to touch those wounds, to cleanse and heal them, to finally allow them to close. In the end, healing is nothing more than a return to ourselves—not a search for perfection, but a deep acceptance of who we are, of our imperfections, and of the beauty we hold within. Perhaps we cannot change everything, but we can change how we choose to live. We can choose to be kind to ourselves, to truly listen, and to make space for what makes our hearts beat. Step by step, we can return to dreaming, to rejoicing, and to living with the luminous freedom that belongs to those who allow themselves to be reborn.
What is pain? It might seem like an easy question, but the answer depends on who you ask. Some say pain is a warning signal, an alarm that something in the body is damaged. Others describe it as the body’s way of telling us that something is wrong. For some, it’s a relentless, brutal tormentor, unyielding and unforgiving. For others, it’s a reminder of their fragility, a sign that their spine is "out of place," a disc is "slipped," or a leg is "broken." Some see it as punishment for their sins, or as a test of faith.
For me, pain is what forces me to stop and look inside myself. It’s when I shut out the world, leaving it to run its course as always. That external world becomes distant, almost irrelevant, as if it no longer exists—or as if I no longer belong to it. It’s difficult to explain where pain takes you. It’s a dark place, an abyss where suffering becomes an incessant cry, a melody that plays through the night. There’s no peace, no rest. You feel immobilised even though you think you’re sleeping. But you cannot sleep… because the pain, like a knife stabbing into your flesh, continues to wound you. You feel the blood flow, and the pain becomes an endless wave. And yet, pain is also a mechanism of protection. We remain blissfully unaware of everything else that happens within us to shield us. The immune system releases inflammatory molecules to destroy invaders or repair damaged tissues. The autonomic nervous system heightens our state of alertness, preparing us to act. The endocrine system stimulates healing and recovery. The motor system adjusts movements to minimise mechanical stress on vulnerable areas. It’s our sensations—fear, pain, hunger, thirst, fatigue—that engage our whole being in the task of protecting and preserving ourselves.
So, is it all in the brain and not in the body? Of course not. Danger detectors are distributed throughout almost every tissue in the body, acting as the "eyes of the brain." When there’s a sudden change in the tissue environment, these receptors form our first line of defense. They alert the brain, mobilise inflammatory mechanisms, release immune molecules to increase blood flow, and trigger the repair of damaged tissues. And pain? For me… you don’t truly know pain until you’re staring at yourself in the mirror, tears streaming down your face, begging yourself to hold on and be strong. That is pain.