Xolivo was born walking.
Among the ancient silences of the Salento fields, wrapped in the dense weave of olive trees, I found breath again. After a time of darkness and rebirth, it was there—among those gnarled, almost human forms—that something within me began to stir, like a forgotten echo speaking again through living matter.
Each tree felt like a body, a soul rooted in the earth. In their twisted trunks, open wounds, and arms stretched skyward, I saw pain and strength, endings and beginnings. A form of resistance—a silent way of staying alive.
Through the lens, I tried to capture these visions, not just with my eyes, but with my skin. Photographing was not simply seeing—it was listening, touching, allowing myself to be crossed. Each image is a threshold: between me and them, memory and matter, fragility and courage.
Xolivo is my song to these vegetal souls, guardians of time and hope.
It is an act of love for a land that suffers, yet still sings—through bare branches that still know how to bloom.
An invitation to stay, to feel, to recognize the life that persists beneath every skin.
