Philosophical Places: A Conversation with Abelardo Morell
Picture this: New York in the 60s, two young boys walk the streets of New York capturing the world through their Brownie cameras. One boy, coke-bottle glasses, an experience of oceanic crossings under his belt and the Tuscan countryside as his home. The other, a teenage refugee from Castro’s Cuba, exploring his new surroundings with a sense of space and wonder that to this day animates his work.
That was the beginning of a ride we didn’t even know we were on. When I look at my good friend Abelardo Morell, I see a deep connection that has nothing to do with background. I came from a comfortable place, a dual national with a safety net; he was a political refugee who had to "rough it out" and climb the success ladder with nothing but his own capacity. Yet, in 1961 and '62, we were both there, two boys navigating New York with cameras in hand, trying to make sense of the pavement.
Seeing him smiling on the screen today, his bookshelves behind him stacked with everything from Giotto to Richter, brings me great pleasure. March 6th through April 24 2026, the Fondazione Studio Marangoni Gallery will be hosting a special exhibition titled “Archive Dialogues - La Misura del Visibile” in which the images by Abelardo that are housed in my precious collection will be put on display alongside those of other photographers who share similar sensitivities, result of an open call launched by our educational partner IFC - Iniziative di Fotografia Contemporanea.
We decided to get together online and have a chat.
“I was young when I first picked up a camera, it was 1969 at Bowdoin College in Maine", Abe reminisces, "I was struggling with academic work but I remember, from the very first roll of film, I could tell that photography was a language that I felt as my own... I had found a medium to express things, that hooked right on to my psyche. Being an immigrant made everything around me look a little odd, surreal even, which made it the perfect subject matter”.
I understand this feeling quite well since I’m dyslexic and words often don’t quite cut it. For both of us, it is simply easier to "get" things through images. We share a healthy distrust for people who speak too academically. As Abe puts it, "People who speak too academically are trying to shield certain things from common people." What we do is about common living; it’s about the universal.
Our paths crossed again - and this time for real - in 1999. I was at the George Eastman House in Rochester, invited to bring “Il Profilo delle Nuvole” by Luigi Ghirri to the Visual Studies Workshop organized by the then associate director Nathan Lyons. My friend Gordon Knox told me that Abelardo was giving a lecture there so I jumped at the opportunity to meet him. I truly believe in serendipity; it is the lifeblood of the photographic process. If we recognize the opportunities life gives us, they enrich us for a long time.
Abe notes “When I met you in Rochester... there was no pretension when I told you I wanted to photograph Italy and you were generous and opened up new possibilities. Italy has become synonymous with you and your Institution. I remember you walking up to me with a grin and saying ‘Oh so you’re into Italy?’. You introduced yourself and told me all about the school. And that was that”. The next Summer Abe was invited to Italy by the Civitella Ranieri foundation for a residency in Umbria and took a detour to Florence.
I still remember when he was doing his early Camera Obscura pictures at my home. The exposures were six to eight hours long. "I felt like some kind of primitive man," he says, "I did not feel like a photographer." I remember one time he took a photo in my brother’s room and it was "forbidden" to enter for ten hours. I didn't care—I knew what he was trying to do.
He took more in the following years. In one of his pictures you can see my living room, layered with the landscape. You can make out my partner Clare’s studio in another image, while another features a beautiful olive tree from my garden.
“I remember you helped me bring plants inside so that they could converse with the ones projected from outside, which I found extremely interesting…”. While the camera sat in the dark, we did the real work: chatting, eating, and enjoying Italian wine.
“We share a good sense of humor”, Abe chuckles. “My father, who is no longer with us, taught me that even in the darkest times a certain lightness can be used as an antidote…. I resort to it when the world feels like a dark place, when depression sets on or I fear that I have no more pictures to take.”
Unlike Abe who has often worked in the studio and with long exposures - initially in his Camera Obscura and later with his Tent Camera series, which also travelled to Florence - I’ve always found the tripod a little limiting. I’m impulsive; I think I took ten photos with a view camera before putting it aside because I didn't have the patience. Abe is the opposite, though he claims to be just as impulsive as me. He just has the discipline to slow down for the sake of the image - and a good assistant to help rein him in.
“Our work might be different in terms of output but there is something that unites us. To me your street photography has always had a very abstract sense of order, almost akin to modern art. The subject matters we both tend to like are philosophical places”.
What I admire most about Abe is that he doesn't stay at one point doing the same thing. Most people get "typecast" once they find success. But as he says, "You want to suggest that the world is still interesting... there is a certain prison in following what is successful in your work, a form of crystallization. I like to quote Stanislavski: Love the art in yourself, not yourself in the art.”
Chatting via video, kilometers apart, we share our ideas on the importance of education. We are both committed teachers, though I often feel I am learning more than I am teaching. Meeting younger people and encouraging them to have a vision gives me hope.
Abe sees it the same way: "I love jazz music and I know that John Coltrane would have younger musicians playing with him, which helped him catch up, keep the crazy alive. It's a question of exchanging energy... and it goes both ways. I remember when I started teaching at the Massachusetts College of Art in 1983... in 1985 I started turning classes into camera obscuras and even the most hip, cool, jaded students would walk into the room, eyes rounded in wonder. There was a basic sense of awe that I feel is important. It is an experience worth preserving”.
Abe partially borrowed a line from an E.E. Cummings poem, “pity this busy monster, manunkind”, for an exhibition of his titled “The Universe Next Door”, held in 2014 at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta… I find that this specific verse sums up our shared philosophy: “listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go.” That sense that every door conceals wonder is what saves us from becoming "angry old men."
Whether it's 1961 in New York or today in a Florentine villa, we are still those two boys with Brownies. We are still looking for beauty in the banal, still finding that "basic sense of awe" that makes life worth documenting. Don't miss the exhibition opening this week on Friday March 6th at 6pm at FSM Gallery, Via San Zanobi 19R, Florence!
From My Bookshelf: Guido Guidi "Col Tempo, 1956-2024"
I decided to pull this beautiful volume off my shelf today in homage to a great artist and friend, Guido Guidi. From February 20th through May 24th 2026 his work will be on view at Le Bal in Paris.
The book I’m holding, 'Col tempo, 1956–2024' (Mack Edizioni), serves as the definitive catalogue for the major retrospective hosted by Rome’s MAXXI Museum in 2024/2025—an exhibition I had the sincere pleasure of experiencing firsthand. For those in Paris, this is a rare opportunity to see that same incredible body of work brought to a new stage
My connection to Guido Guidi began in the early 90s, a time when he was still somewhat "semi-obscure." While respected in a tight-knit circle, he lacked the self-promotional drive of his peers. He is shy, soft-spoken and has a very selective social circle. Photography scholar Paolo Costantini was instrumental in ushering his work to a more international audience during his time as a collections curator for the CCA - Canadian Centre for Architecture (where some of my work is held as well) and American photographer John Gossage brought his work to the US.
We first crossed paths in Venice during Venezia 79 La Fotografia and then at Les Rencontres d'Arles - when the latter used to be a place for photographers to actually meet. Today, it feels like a game of "hide and seek"—if you don't have a pre-arranged appointment, you're invisible. I would also bump into Guido quite frequently in Milan where I would go to events with my friends Kitti Bolognesi, Roberta Valtorta, Gabriele Basilico and Giovanna Calvenzi.
I remember the workshop we hosted with him in 1994, exploring the Florentine suburban area of Osmannoro with our view cameras under the rain. Among the students were Marco Signorini, Simone Bacci, and Marzia Migliora. Guido was a tough mentor. He was very focused but in a way that did not allow much flexibility, which sometimes made it hard for the students whose work didn't align with his vision.
What set Guido apart from the Viaggio in Italia group (like Luigi Ghirri or Gabriele Basilico) was his professional standing. Unlike others who relied on commissioned and commercial assignments to fund their personal work, Guido was a professor at the Accademia di Ravenna and IUAV in Venice, where he also studied as a young man. Trained as an architect, curiously he doesn't photograph buildings as they are; he photographs the empty spaces between them. He functions like a street photographer, choreographing elements in space… but without people. I have always found his images quite conceptual. His lectures were steeped in Renaissance culture. He frequently referenced Piero della Francesca to explain perspective and developed his own complex theories on "the gaze”.
Looking back at his career through the recent MAXXI book, I was surprised by his early, experimental work. His beginnings were intimate—mostly interiors and private moments.
The New Topographics movement probably steered him toward his signature style of peripheral landscapes. In his work, people are abstract—shadows or silhouettes. When he does include them, they are usually collaborators or people he knows personally. He rarely stops" strangers in the street.
In hindsight, Guido’s influence on my own work regarding peripheral spaces is significant (for example, No Man's Land and my work for the MAXXI museum in Rome). We share a "perversion" for abandoned, rundown spaces. There is something stimulating about finding aesthetic interest in neglect.
I too have always been drawn to construction sites—the cranes, the machinery, the tools. It’s a constant source of discovery where something new appears every day. Guido incorporated this perfectly: capturing landscapes in a state of extinction or construction. Even now, when I shoot abstract, unstaged scenes in the suburbs with my digital camera, I recognize moments where I am essentially taking Guido Guidi pictures.
Guido remains, as Martin Parr suggested during one of our conversations, perhaps the most important Italian photographer of his era.
From My Bookshelf: Lee Friedlander "Photographs"
Memory lane isn't always linear - at my age, sometimes I feel like I'm walking uphill when it comes to remembering precise moments, names and dates from my past. Photography has taken on an even more central role, as I delve into my archives, photo albums and book shelves on the lookout for stories to share.
This blog post arises from the pages of a book I cherish deeply: the first edition of Lee Friedlander's "Photographs" published by Haywire Press, New York, in 1978 .
In 1979 I was lucky enough to be a part of Venezia '79 - La Fotografia, a monumental, city-wide photography festival held from June to September in Venice, featuring 26 exhibitions, 46 workshops, and numerous seminars with 3,500 photos from 500 artists. It was organized by the International Center of Photography (ICP) with financing from UNESCO.
I had been called to act as an interpreter for their weekly workshops, namely the ones led by legendary photographers Duane Michals, Marie Cosindas and Lee Friedlander. I had just moved back to Italy after living in New York, but the guys from ICP knew me and confided in my linguistic abilities, since I speak both Italian and English fluently. Not many people had this skill in Italy at the time. Needless to say, I was completely out of my league, but I accepted anyway, eager to meet the greats.
I lucked out with Friedlander because he was a man of few words. When questioned, he would reply in short statements or mutter “I don't have much to say about this". He was a restless soul. The true reason behind his visit to Venice was quite clear: taking pictures. I ended up spending more time in the company of his wife, Maria De Paoli, who was very friendly and warm; she wanted to practice her Italian with me.
There was one instance in which I was not as fortunate. One evening, they held a conference in front of Palazzo Fortuny with photographer George Tice, who was a very loquacious type, and asked me to translate live.
In front of all those people, overwhelmed by George's verbal audacity, I completely froze and was not able to retrieve my train of thought. It was terrible, and the audience was growing increasingly nervous. Mercifully, there was a young Edward Rozzo in the crowd—another New Yorker photographer who had moved to Milan—who felt compelled to take my place on stage. I was so grateful, and we became good friends after that.
Venezia '79 - La Fotografia was an incredible event, truly one of a kind... as a matter of fact, it was the first and the last of its kind. I met so many people during those days—Guido Guidi, for example, and his then student Paolo Costantini…
It was an unprecedented gathering of photographers and a pivotal occasion for networking and dialogue. At the time, I was not then aware of how impactful this event would have been in furthering my academic career and how the workshop format would become central to the inception of Studio Marangoni ten years later.
Friedlander had brought a few copies of his book and he gave me a signed one, despite my poor performance as a translator. These images still have a great hold on me; the observation of humans in the public space resonates with my practice deeply.
Alongside Gary Winogrand and Robert Frank, I still see him as one of the pillars of photography, and he influenced me greatly.
Behind the scenes photos by Michelle Davis
A tribute to Martin Parr
In the mid-90s, I received a call from Gabriele Basilico. He asked if he could give my number to Martin Parr, who was coming to Florence for a project and didn’t know anyone. At that stage of his career, Martin was primarily known in the UK and had not yet joined Magnum Photos. Though he had already published several books, his global fame was still on the horizon.
I invited him to stay at my home, and we became immediate friends. Coincidentally, my partner Claire is British, so I was traveling to England frequently. Martin was like quicksilver; you were lucky to catch an hour of his time. While we were not "intimate" friends in the traditional sense, he was incredibly generous and thoughtful. We would have lunch whenever I was in London; he was always eager to organize workshops or collaborations, and he possessed a remarkable memory for the details of my life and family.
In the following years, he introduced me to the British photography scene. I became close friends with Ken Grant, Val Williams, John Davies, and Mark Power. Martin was an extraordinary connector. Through him, I also met Brett Rogers who was then Deputy Director and Head of Exhibitions at the Visual Arts Department at the British Council. This opened new doors for the Fondazione Studio Marangoni. Not only did we host several workshops with Martin, but in 1999, we also hosted the Italian leg of his global exhibition "Common Sense”. This was a landmark project documenting the "lurid" and "kitsch" aspects of consumer culture through vivid color photography. The installation consisted of over 200 color photocopies shown simultaneously in 41 venues across 17 countries. We were part of a truly global event.
I have many fond memories of our time together. One of my favorite anecdotes took place in 1998, the "Italian Year" at the Rencontres d’Arles. Giovanna Calvenzi was the artistic director, and I was featured in an exhibition curated by Toni Thorimbert. A few months before the festival, my brother, Peter, announced he was getting married in London on the 6th of July—the exact dates of Arles. I couldn't be there, nor could I act as his wedding photographer.
In a bind, I called Martin to ask if he could recommend one of his students for the job. "When is the wedding?" he asked. When I told him it coincided with Arles, he explained that he couldn't go to France anyway because he was working in London. To my astonishment, he offered to shoot the wedding himself, enthusiastically accepting a modest student budget. The images he delivered were classic Parr: grotesque depictions of high society—no sugar-coated glamour, just heavily flashed close-ups, saturated colors, and extreme textures. The newlyweds were actually thrilled with the result!
I also remember the first workshop we hosted at Fondazione Studio Marangoni in 1998. Martin challenged the students to gain access to people’s private lives. He wanted them to step outside their comfort zones to capture a glimpse of contemporary society. Among the participants was a young Paolo Woods, whose ability to overcome the psychological fear of that "first step" already set him apart. I reached out to him to collect his version of the events:
“At the time of the workshop I was a teacher at Fondazione Studio Marangoni, assisting students in the darkroom. This position gave me access to the school’s activities and even though Martin had not yet reached stardom Martino insisted that this was an opportunity not to be missed. I still remember that day, the students lined up with their portfolios, confident and unwavering in their know-it-all attitude… and Martin crushed them. He was not mean but he could be trenchant in his comments: ‘This is really bad’, ‘This is extremely lazy’. His comments broke the group’s back and made us want to prove ourselves. He then asked us to go out and photograph ‘what we are not supposed to photograph’. We had to embrace danger, dance with it… and there was a prize for the best project: an actual photo from Martin Parr’s series ‘Common Sense’. The most absurd things ensued - one student was arrested for taking photos of a police station, another asked the women in the posh area of Via Tornabuoni if she could photograph the inside of their purses, a mysterious dimension unknown to most scientists and men. Someone walked into a gym and took portraits of the bodybuilders while another documented invicta backpacks, on which at the time it was common to find slogans, dedications, drawings scribbled out in colorful ink. I had the idea of leafing through the Rigattiere, a local publication for bargain hunters where you could find the weirdest things for sale. I chose the strangest ad I could find: an elderly woman was selling her vintage wedding dress. Martin approved the idea but added a layer of complexity, saying that I had to manage to convince the woman to let me photograph her wearing the dress. I invented all kinds of excuses but in the end she squeezed into the garment, I took the photo and it earned the prize. His attitude would probably not be accepted in schools today, he was uncompromising and did not do you any favors… He was able to walk into a exhibition space, shorts, socks and sandals, the epitome of non-aesthetics, look around and say ‘this looks really bad’ with a smile on his face. But on the other hand, he saw beauty where others did not.”
Martin remained unpretentious and down-to-earth despite his success. He was always available to chat or sign a book. He also had the foresight to ensure his legacy would endure; his Foundation exists today largely because of his obsession with photobooks. He was a legendary collector and a tireless promoter of the medium, as seen in his seminal series The Photobook: A History, co-authored with Gerry Badger.
We kept in touch until the very end. He had a deep appreciation for Italian landscape photography and recently told me that his favorite Italian photographer was Guido Guidi. I feel privileged to have had this informal connection with him away from the spotlight. He has often been described as cruel or cynical because of his photographic style, but in person, he was anything but.
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A tribute to Philip Perkins
My education in photography began at Pratt in 1972. After a first semester with Charles Harbutt, I began studying with Philip Perkis. Phil was the antithesis of the typical "frontal" teacher; he wasn't interested in lecturing from a podium. Instead, our relationship was a constant dialogue.
He was entirely non-academic. His writing reflected this—it was the opposite of academic jargon, often sparse and direct. In fact, his biography famously consisted of only four lines:
"I started photography in the Air Force in 1957 and haven't stopped. Teaching became a serious part of my life in the 60s. I remain an unrepentant modernist."
Phil’s teaching style was "unprepared." There were no formal lectures; he would simply look at the work. He would bring slides, invite guests like Duane Michals or Joel Meyerowitz, and just talk. He would sit outside the darkroom while we printed, look at a test strip, and offer advice.
Both he and Paul Caponigro, another of my spiritual leaders, studied with Ansel Adams at the San Francisco institute and both of them said to let go of the Zone System and instead focus on the atmosphere, the light. Phil would tell us to shoot our Kodak Tri-X 400 at 200 and if I see my prints and film from those days they were fantastic.
He never imposed a choice on a contact sheet. While some students found this lack of control frustrating, for me, it was exactly what I needed: a mentor who backed me up while allowing me the freedom to make my own choices. His own methodology was best summed up by his love for trout fishing. He taught us that photography, like fishing, requires a specific state of mind. You have to be prepared, but you can’t plan everything. You have to be in the right place at the right time and possess the intuition to 'rein it in.' You set out with a mission, but what you pull out of the water is part of a process you must be in tune with.
It was a very Zen approach: go to the areas you love, keep going back, and eventually, you will see beyond the obvious. It taught me the frame of mind of "finding the trouts."
I often contrasted Phil with other professors like Arthur Freed, who was totally judgmental—to the point of making female students cry. Phil, by contrast, was a gentle observer. He was non-judgmental, and I inherited this approach in my own teaching.
We also shared a certain melancholic loneliness, yet Phil managed to keep things light and funny. You can see this irony in his pictures. In his book The Sadness of Men, he responded to Max Kozloff on the difference between sadness and depression:
"I see sadness as a positive emotion, I see sadness as beautiful... a possibility of transcendence. Sadness and happiness are two sides of the same coin."
Our friendship lasted decades. Every time I returned to New York, we would meet for lunch. I recently found photos of him portrayed alongside Lois Conner; though I didn't hang out with her in the 70s, we became close in the 80s when I was teaching at Cooper Union and she was at Yale.
Phil was incredibly supportive when I told him I wanted to open a school in Florence. He traveled there many times to give workshops. He was particularly enamored with Beato Angelico’s frescoes at San Marco, visiting the monks' cells so often that the guards began to recognize him.
In his later years, Phil began to lose his sight. He approached it with his characteristic humor and a philosophical spirit.
I still own the book I bought from him in 1978, the Warwick Mountain Series. Looking at his books today, I realize he taught me much more than I was willing to admit. Many of my early pictures were undoubtedly inspired by his personality and his way of looking at the world.
I wish I had more specific memories of his lectures, but I realize now that his teachings aren't lost—they live on in my own photography and in the way I guide my students today. I would love to eventually start a network of Phil’s former students to keep that spirit alive.
The Best of 2025
2025 has been a very productive year for my photography.
I travelled extensively, and those journeys were both intense and rewarding.
Every place I visited allowed me to continue my lifelong interest in the relationship between natural landscape and workspace in an urban environment, searching how the two overlap and interact.
As I wrote in my recent tribute to Philip Perkis, I am more and more aware of how his teaching guide me to this day so I included a few excerpts from his book "Teaching Photography - Notes Assembled" (OB Press).
2025 Workspace Series
In the following selection, I focused my attention on urban environments where human experience is shaped by productivity.
I found this paragraph from Phil's books quite fitting:
“I began to realize that the content of street photography is often based on a kind of criticism or at least a sense of irony. The photographer is in a superior position to the subject as an observer who can isolate and shift context through choice of frame and timing of exposure.
Photographing people in public spaces also creates a level of tension and frequently a flow of adrenaline that is apparent in some of the photographs and contributes to the content."
2025 Landscape Series
Places of industry and work are especially revealing, as they speak directly about how we live today. When ancient monuments sit within contemporary settings, they create layered landscapes where time, nature, and human activity — work or leisure — come together and help us better understand our contemporary society.
In a way, Philip and I share the fact that after practicing urban street photography, we both shifted our lenses towards nature. This is what he wrote in regards to this:
"The question becomes how to introduce emotional content in landscape photography without all the ammunition that one has in social situations…
...Can I make a photograph of nature (the woods) that can be next to one of my pictures of people on the street and it will sit there with 'meaning?'"
From My Bookshelf: Charles Harbutt "Travelog"
From my Bookshelf is a monthly feature on my website where I showcase a selection of books from my personal collection.
Book #1 - Charles Harbutt "Travelog" (MIT Press)
This is where my collection began - my very first photobook.
I bought this book in the Winter of 1973, while I was living in New York and taking classes at Pratt. I don’t remember where I purchased it, perhaps at the Strand Bookstore. It was actually published that very year by MIT Press, the university press of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Charles Harbutt was the one who made me want to enroll in the three year course at Pratt… his class was a real eye-opener. His images and style truly resonated with me… alongside Phil Perkins, he was one of my greatest inspirations during those years and I realize how much I owe them.
Leafing through the pages of this book I can honestly say that there is a clear connection between our ways of thinking of and taking photos. Just like Charles, my work straddles the personal, intimate dimension and more chaotic, urban scenarios in which human connections take on a whole different meaning. During my first years in New York I prevalently photographed cars, buildings and the effects of urban isolation - this is where my ongoing series “Alone Together” started taking form.
I wish I had more memories of my time with him. At the time, our professors spoke out of personal experience and not academic training, it was quite different from today. They would introduce various subject matters by showing us works by historical and contemporary authors and encourage us to go out and shoot. Phil Perkins would tell us to loiter on the same spot until something happened, to use our gaze and spatial awareness as a compass. This approach is at the very heart of street photography. Under their guidance, we would afterwards hone our ability in developing, selecting and printing… I admit that I later fully embraced this methodology when I began teaching in Florence.
Ph. Michelle Davis
The Best of 2024
Over the past year, I resumed international travel after the pause brought on by Covid, revisiting
some of my favorite cities. While reconnecting with family and friends was my primary motivation,
my photographic curiosity also led me to explore how these places have evolved.
This journey took me to London, Paris, Vienna, Chicago, New York, Den Haag, and Lisbon for the
first time. The images presented here are part of a long-term project exploring urban landscapes,
documenting new building sites, and capturing spaces where people play their roles on the
contemporary stage.
Happy New Year to everyone, near and far!
LONDON
CHICAGO
NEW YORK
DEN HAAG
LISBON
A tribute to Paul Caponigro
Today, December 7th, would have been Paul Caponigro's birthday.
His passing fills me with sadness and gratitude. I first met him in New Mexico in the late 1970s, and later welcomed him to my home in Florence in 1989. Since then, his wisdom and artistry have been a guiding light in my life.
Paul taught me the power of stillness - how to move and breathe slowly through landscapes, whether forests or rocky terrains, and connect deeply with the essence of nature. His photograph embodied this mindful presence, revealing the beauty and spirit of the world around us. His legacy lives on, not only in his extraordinary images but in the lessons of attentiveness and harmony he shared.
I began appreciating Paul Caponigro’s work during my photography studies in the early 1970s. His Stonehenge images struck me like no other body of work, leaving a profound impression. From that point on, I made it a priority to visit standing stone sites, particularly in England and France. My first visit to Stonehenge was in the summer of 1976, when Julie and I spent the month of August touring ancient sites.
In the summer of 1989, I had the pleasure of hosting Paul at my house in Florence. He had been touring Italy, photographing, and shared his insights and experiences during his stay. At the time, my studio on Via San Zanobi had just become a gathering point for photography lovers and practitioners to meet and share their passion. Paul graciously offered to give a workshop, becoming the first in what would evolve into a long tradition of hosting inspiring guest photographers.
I visited Paul several times in Maine, the last of which was in 2016 with my family. During that visit, he shared with us his latest work as well as my favorite series of his Stonehenge images.
Paris Photo 2003-2019
I’ve been attending Paris Photo regularly since the early 2000s. Since its launch in the late 1990s, it has become a cornerstone event in the global photography community, a fixture on the November calendar that feels essential each year. My reasons to attend is to meet people, reconnect with old friends, and see remarkable photography, but also to enjoy Paris, its museums, and galleries. And of course, to end the day with friends from the photo community in a French bistro. See you there!
For more Parisian photos, click here.
