Vogue Italia | Riccardo Raspa

David Hurn once asked me, “How do you become the best at what you do?” He then added, “Do you think the best violinist in the world was just born that way? He practises every day of his life. So why shouldn’t you train your eyes the same way?” Registro wants to be an exercise; a way to keep taking images, daily, with no specific project in mind. A way to give legs to images, to let them walk out there in the streets, sitting in cafés or living rooms rather than be buried in a kind of “cemetery,” a vast archive of data stored on hard drives, occasionally visited but rarely seen. It’s difficult at times, having all this material and no output, so this is it.

Living in motion means belonging in motion. Not a family defined by blood, but the one encountered along the way, collected.

Like a fast drive across uncertain streets, headlights cutting through the fog of chance. Sometimes you get lost on the highway, an unexpected passenger sits beside you, entering your life without asking.

They take a piece of you, and you take a piece of them. For a brief moment, you live inside each other. That fleeting exchange creates a form of ubiquity.

You exist in places you’ve never been, carried by those who have known you.

Somehow that’s enough to exist in each other’s lives even when you’re far away.

Vanya came into my life this way.

Seventeen, fleeing from Ukraine in 2022, a war he didn’t choose. He crossed my doorway like a gust of cold air, and then didn’t leave.

One year.

One year of learning how to care for someone who wasn’t my blood, but felt like it. A younger brother, maybe a son, almost. Someone to protect, to care for, to love.

Someone I carried, and who carried me in return even when neither of us knew it.

I’ve learned that vulnerability is the real passport to belonging. When you keep the door open, people can sit with you, ride with you, breathe the same air for a while.

They come and go.

They pause.

They sit.

And sometimes, they sit long enough to become family.