The piano

I have always enjoyed returning to the places of my childhood, although this journey often comes with a bittersweet feeling. It’s inevitable to notice how time leaves its mark: how everything changes, ages, and sometimes disappears. Even so, going back to the village where we spent those unforgettable summers awakens in me a flood of indelible memories. There, freedom seemed boundless, far from the dangers of the city. We would run tirelessly, as if the day would never end.

In my mind, the places of my childhood have always been larger, more majestic than what I now find in reality. Sometimes I struggle to recognize corners I remember as spacious and full of life, but which now seem small and worn under my adult gaze.

Recently, I returned to one of those places full of memories. During our trips to the village house, we would often stop there to visit my great-uncle and great-aunt. It was a large house nestled between a river and a church. This time, upon arriving, I couldn’t resist climbing the now-ruined stairs and discovering what remained of a place that had once been so significant.

One window, leading to a room that was once used as a dining area, was open. How could I not peek in after so many years? From there, I could see that everything had changed. The large table and chairs that once occupied the center of the room had vanished. The photographs that adorned the walls were no longer there. In their place, I could barely make out a piece of furniture against the wall and a stool. Intrigued, I raised my camera to capture an image, and when I looked at the screen, I discovered something unexpected: a piano.

That piano had never been there before. It seemed to be in perfect condition, a surprising contrast within a house on the brink of ruin. In front of it, the stool sat waiting, as if inviting someone to take a seat and fill the silence with a melody.

I was sorry to go away and leave him there abandoned in the middle of his silence. But it is not up to me to take care of that little jewel either. I don't know how to play the piano. Yet it seemed to call to me. 88 notes. This is the title of one of my photographic projects that I have been working on for the last year or so. A piano has 88 notes. Each note for me represents a landscape, a type of light. From the first to the last. A beginning and an end. A succession of stories connected by a sound. The unique and nuanced sound of each of those 88 notes that seem to tell their own story, just like this piano that was trapped in time.