Giorgio Agazzi

In the early 80s, when I was a little one, my grandpa with a few buddies decided to start growing vegetables from a discarded piece of land nearby our home. Over the years, that little patch has provided our family with any first fruits. For me and my cousins, it also represented a place of adventures, where we played with each other, putting up little twig huts and doing stuff during summertime. When I was eighteen, my grandpa passed away and my dad decided to keep on cultivating still today. While growing up, this place was on the verge of disappearing from time to time and being replaced by new parking lots, playgrounds, dog areas or new buildings. Around my thirties, I started to take pictures of that place, so small and yet so fulfilled by memories, feelings and a hint of nostalgia. Photographs can’t avoid things to disappear, but at least they allow us to evoke impressions, memories and feelings through the surface of the image. Childhood seems a time so far away, but photography told me a “Gulliver” lesson: by framing, little things become larger and the bigger ones become smaller and more accessible.