The first time I stepped into the world of Bussana Vecchia, I was a child and I don’t retain a real memory of it. It’s more of a blurred image, a cloud of colors, of alleys going uphill, and of my father’s arms on which I clung for help in climbing those alleys.

I remember the large church with no ceiling as if it was a temple from another world, alien and earthly at the same time, with the plants merging with the stones and binding them to the earth more than the concrete. Above all, of that first time in Bussana Vecchia, I remember the print bought in one of the workshops, which has always triumphed on the wall of my parents’ dining room.