Borgo Stomennano: A Film Photographer’s Moment in Tuscany

The light is soft as it touches the landscape of Borgo Stomennano, but I’m not here for the usual photo. I’m not chasing grand gestures or perfect compositions. I’m here because I want to capture something more elusive—the quiet pulse of this place, the subtle moods that exist between moments.

As I walk through the grounds, camera in hand, I feel no rush. I’m not concerned with what’s next or whether the shot is perfect. With film, everything slows down, and I move with that rhythm. My Rolleiflex, always steady, never promises me instant feedback. I trust it to hold the truth of this day—no more, no less.

The couple is here, yes, but they don’t need to perform. I don’t want them to. The light falls gently around them, a kind of stillness that feels like it belongs to this place, this moment. I don’t intervene, I just observe. The setting doesn’t need to be dressed up for the camera. There’s no artifice, no pretense, just what is.

Later, when the evening sun spills over the garden and they share a quiet moment, I take my shot. But it’s not staged. It’s just them—two people, immersed in their own world, and that’s what I want to preserve. The simplicity of it. The realness of it.

Back in my studio in Florence, I’ll develop the film with no expectation beyond the truth of what I saw. There won’t be a quick fix, no immediate result to obsess over. I’ll let it unfold at its own pace. It’s not about perfection, not about anything other than what feels true.

Borgo Stomennano didn’t need to be anything more than it already was. And neither do my photographs. They’re not meant to impress, just to capture the fleeting nature of what exists when we stop trying to make something out of it. In the quiet moments of Tuscany, I find that peace, and my camera simply helps me remember it.