Leaving Rome

Resting his head of dark curls in the crook of his outstretched arm, Francesco lounges placidly across a golden duvet. Marzia Cipolla accentuates the feeling; the effortless striped shirt reminiscent of childhood in July, memories of condensation dripping down a sticky glass of lemonade and grass stuck to bare calves past sundown. They move outside, enchanted by nature’s many shades of emerald and the swishing black tails of grazing friends, their equine bodies gleaming gloriously.

The weathered wood of an outbuilding supports Francesco as he leans nonchalantly on the structure. His light clothes reference the scene around him - a print of trees, rivers, and sheep dancing across his shorts. Boards straight and true, the shelter quietly tells its farming roots, prizing durability and functionality, finding that the form for the job also suits the character of the landscape. Wooden fencing borders the property, unpainted and cracking, aged but sturdy.

Meadows of wildflowers sprawl beyond the ginger cattle. In a long pleated skirt and well-loved hiking boots, Francesco lies at the feet of the grazing herd. Meeting the lens with their bovine gaze, we share a moment of connection with the curious cows, earnestly taking one another in. But we can only capture their attention for a while before they’ll turn their rumps to us, off to sample a lusher patch of pasture.