Alberto Cima

The wonder of being alive, here, now. The look at things. The sea, the rocks of Sardinia. The paradise of the fantastic spring flowering. The harshness of inhospitable rocks. The tangle of serpentine branches. The millennial olive tree that does not die. The traces of man. Footprints in the sand and abandoned remains of powerful factories. The dark history of mysterious nuraghi. A woman's old body, her cats and the blowfly. The fatigue and intelligence of beetles. The agony of the insect and the tenderness of fresh throbbing breasts. The days that pass in a terrible and fascinating wait.

Back stage of Samuel Beckett’s "Endgame". Actors and director of the “Little Loggia” theatrical company of Brescia talk about the theatre.

A single wave pushes us towards a dimension of beauty and harmony.

Daverio’s works, whether it is sculptures, paintings or jewellery, need, to bee understood and appreciated, not the translator’s rhetoric, but the silence of the naturalist who, with love, listens to the song of birds which would fly away at the merest rustling. Daverio’s primitive figures, who appear to be playful, personify the conundrums, doubts, and anguish of the modern world.

The city of Tallinn, capital of Estonia, offers the rare possibility of observing freely, without tricks of the eye nor violence. People welcome the watching eye naturally, they do not feel offended nor do they withdraw, they participate willingly, discreetly. In every place: in bars, on streetcars, along the street. And they never cease to convey messages, even when their voice goes off and they start to stare into space with embarrassment. All the images of "Gentle Tallinn" belong to reality as do its sounds. Caught in a relationship of tenderness with every living being and thing, in common fate. With eyes wide open and the sweetness of temporary enchantments.

A young employee in a large industry. Its identity breaks away from the harshness of a system determined by power and hypocrisy. It struggles in the quicksand of everyday banality, and even its private life crumbles under the steamroller with inexorable rules.

The damage to health caused by the abuse of prescription drugs and by industrial interests.

In the future people will consume more but probably in a personal way because they will be more informed and cultured.

The works of contemporary artists chosen by eight young critics, exhibited in the halls of the Bergamo Modern and Contemporary Art Gallery. Painting, sculpture, photography, media.

Natural mountain environment, a free horse walks in the green, a cat, a rooster, in a cellar of an ancient farmhouse an old woman offers a cup of milk to a beautiful ceramist, the cry of an infant. Milk has always been life.

The cut given to Mani, shot in the year 2000, is unusual: no voice over, a few superimposed words which supply the key for the interpretation. The Qohèlet of the Bible, time, the making, the daring, traces of self, vanity, giving, loving, ideas, fragility, words which make us understand that the jointer plane, the lathe, the carriage and all the objects of the Carpenter Museum talk to us about man, about his eternal questions, about his anxieties, his hopes.

In London, they lament it and welcome him, but everyone is inside their shell. And they obey indifferently. Society divided into classes. Indians run minimarkets. The British are superior beings. Progress within the rules set by business. Private property is sacred. The owner and his slaves keep watch. Every corporation, company, or luxury store has one or more employees who watch, control, and spy. In the British Library, I counted 50. You can't enter any reading room without a pass. Police officers and poachers firmly turn me away as soon as I try to film. Everything belongs to someone: only the owner can allow its use. A fortified city. Men in a vault. Getting rich. Marvelous designer skyscrapers draw the line between the select few and the indistinct masses. Empty, docile bodies.

A young university student desperately searching for meaning—in life, in society, in himself—striving to capture the secret messages radiating from a body, a gaze, a flower. Like Joyce's Bloom, he wanders through his city with wonder and irony; important things unfold in a few moments, followed by long hours spent on benches listening to himself.

The use of new methodologies in the Lograto institute for handicapped children.

The exploits of Umberto Nobile’s expedition to the North Pole remembered, after 50 years, with the survivors in Adro (Brescia).

Portrait of a Lorena Baretti, a girl who is a temporary waitress in a bar in the Sant’Omobono Spa Complex.

The old curator illustrates the itinerary of the museum in Castiglione delle Stiviere (Mantova). Amongst the grand buildings decorating the charming town of Castiglione delle Stiviere, there is a palace which recalls one of the most significant pages in the history of human solidarity and international human rights. It is the elghteenth-century palace Triulzi-Longhi, in which, in 1859 the International Museum of the Red Cross has been installed, to witness that one hundred years earlier, in Castiglione the idea of what today is the most important humanitarian organization in the worl found its origins thanks to the bright sensibility of a young businessman from Geneva, Henry Dunant.

The storks occupy Salamanca, while Deborah explores the city with Alberto. Smiling together on the passage of time, nature and society. The wide-ranging, free, life as it comes, in the freshness and irony.

Tréminis, Grenoble, France. Lucy emigrated with her husband Battista in 1952. Children of poverty in the postwar years. A small world, just two years of school, family, and church. Her four children are free and independent, but in the end, they are more alone and more fragile. Her eight grandchildren, French in every sense, have more money, free time, culture, and interests. They all find solace in Lucy, always. Lucy's garden is what Lucy has sown: her loves, fears, and sorrows.

Roads designed for cars, concrete overpowering the rustic building that was a sign of a house somehow possessed, not a trap. Hard-packed gardens, good only for motorcycles. Brescia: reality or nightmare? The public housing is faded, sad. Blocks left there, a neighborhood without connection. Kids slide on mounds of dirt and garbage. Man, where are you going? (Luciano Spiazzi)