Entering in Erto, I believed there were ghosts.
Everything is still at 9 October 1963, when a landslide from Mount Toc falling down into Vajont artificial lake.
Old Erto - the only place, as the dam, survived at consequent tsunami - is a very small village with strong contrasts: darkness broken by glimmers of light, sharp shadows drawn from the sun.
Strong contrasts as strong was the history of this small village: the tragedy of Vajont, the despair, the forced abandonment.
Looking to the first pictures, I found tracks that pushed me to follow them, and so on, for all photos I shot,
that gave me ideas for the next, in an attempt to find the ghosts who were hiding behind the walls abandoned.
Ghosts that were simply traces of the past.
With these photos I do not pretend to represent Erto; rather I try to use photography as an excuse to think, reflect,
immerse myself in those who, one day, was forced to abandon everything.
I come back to Erto, sometimes desert, sometimes crowded as the evening of Good Friday, when the commemoration of the Passion fills the country:
I would not know where else you could perform if not here, this is best set design; seems more commemorate the ordeal of these people that the Passion of Christ.
I saw traces of the old Erto.
Traces of the past.
Traces of abandonment.
Traces of those who stubbornly remained.
Traces of traditions that resist.




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