Living in history

There are places that don’t just act as a backdrop.
They shape the way you see things, and they stay with you even after you no longer live there.

We live in the Fornelle district, in the historic center of Salerno. It’s not a place that tries to please, nor is it built to be told. It’s narrow, dense, sometimes chaotic. And precisely because of that, it feels real.

Life here isn’t something you observe from the outside. It hits you directly. Distances are minimal, voices carry, everything is shared—even when it shouldn’t be. There’s no space to remain neutral.

Then the murals arrive, I imagined them coming to life — see here.

At first, they seem like a purely aesthetic intervention, something meant to “beautify” the area. But that’s not how they work. They don’t cover the neighborhood or turn it into something else. If anything, they make it more visible.

The walls begin to speak. Colors follow the uneven surfaces, adapting to cracks and imperfections. They don’t erase what was there before—they bring it out.

That’s when your perspective starts to change.

Fornelle remains the same, but you no longer perceive it in the same way. You’re not just inside a neighborhood anymore—you begin to see an identity, something that holds everything together.

And we are there, within that transition. Not as observers, but as part of the context. Living in a place like this forces you to take a position, even without realizing it.

Over time, it becomes clear that this kind of impact doesn’t stay confined there.

Today, Amalfi, the ceramics, the images we create—they don’t come from nowhere. They follow the same logic.

Starting from something real, imperfect, already existing, and working on it without erasing it. Not to turn it into something else, but to make it more visible.

Fornelle is not just a distant memory.
It is a point of origin.

And certain points of origin are never truly left behind.
They keep resurfacing, in different forms, in everything you do.