I write for the same reason I photograph, and about almost the same thing: someone watching, and the distance they never cross.
Thirty years behind a lens taught me that observing is not a neutral act. Whoever watches chooses where to stand, what to frame, when to stop. And every choice is also a decision not to do something else. Both novels start there: from what it costs to stay on the wrong side of the glass.
Psychological thriller
2026 · 255 pages
For ten years Aldo has photographed the same street from the opposite pavement, forty metres away, and has never rung that doorbell.
One evening he develops an expired roll of film found at a flea market, and in the seventeenth frame there is a man looking at a green door. What is terrible is not what the man is doing. It is what he has already decided to do, and has not yet told anyone.
Psychological thriller
2026 · 314 pages
At two minutes past eleven, behind the glass of the house across the street, there is a face. It lasts three seconds. Then the curtain.
Irene lives alone on the first floor of via Beltrame. An illness has taken the street from her, the stairs, the shopping: it has left her a window and seven metres of distance. So she watches. For a lifetime she recorded other people’s words for the record — the exact hour, the place, the sentences as they were said. Now she does it in a kitchen notebook, and nobody believes her.