I arrive at Lake Massaciuccoli in the late afternoon, when February begins to take weight away from things. The light is already low, filtered through a pale sky that does not promise sudden changes. There is no wind. The water is still, almost suspended, as if the lake has decided to hold its breath.
In moments like this, the landscape asks for nothing.
It does not suggest compositions; it does not offer spectacle. It simply exists. And it is precisely this condition that makes me stop.
In front of me, a few signs emerge: worn wooden posts, a horizontal structure barely visible in the distance, fragments of wood that no longer serve a clear purpose. They do not tell an obvious story. They do not indicate a path. They are remnants—minimal presences floating within a space far larger than themselves.
I observe for a long time before setting up the tripod.
I know that here, any extra gesture would be unnecessary. The frame must be essential, reduced to the bone. I choose a neutral focal length, one that neither exaggerates nor compresses. I want space to remain space, without forced interpretation.
The horizon is distant, almost imperceptible. Water and sky resemble one another, separated by a thin line that feels more mental than real. The posts interrupt this continuity. They do not disturb it; they measure it. They are the only vertical references in a world that tends toward horizontality, toward levelling.
I set a slow shutter speed, but not an extreme one. Long enough to erase the residual movement of the water, short enough to retain a trace of presence. Long exposure, for me, is never about effect. It is a way of removing noise, of allowing the landscape to speak without haste.
During those few seconds of waiting, nothing happens. And yet, internally, everything does.
Time stops behaving like a sequence and becomes a space. The light does not change direction; it does not intensify. It remains. It spreads across the water, rendering it uniform, silent. Reflections begin to matter more than the objects themselves. What lies above and what lies below start to converse, almost to merge.
I release the shutter when I feel there is no reason to wait any longer.
Not because the moment is “right,” but because it is stable. In balance.
Looking back at the image, what emerges is not the subject, but the relationship between elements. The posts do not dominate the scene, yet they are indispensable. Without them, space would feel infinite but abstract. With them, vastness becomes readable. Silence acquires measure.
This photograph is born not from action, but from suspension.
It is the result of listening rather than choosing. An attempt to return that rare sensation when the landscape stops telling something and begins simply to be.
For me, Pictures of the Year does not mean selecting the most complex or most recognizable image. It means finding the one that, when viewed over time, continues to speak in the same way—without emphasis, without urgency.
This image represents my 2025 for precisely that reason: because it does not seek to explain, but to remain; because it reduces the landscape to a few essential elements, allowing space to do the rest.
A still lake in February.
A few signs immersed in water.
And all the silence necessary to truly see.
