La Somma dei Suoi Piccoli Difetti

There is a sentence I carry with me:

“La bellezza di una donna è la somma dei suoi piccoli difetti.”

It sounds poetic, but for me it’s not poetry, it’s a technical truth.

It’s what I see every time a woman finally stops controlling herself in front of my lens.

When the perfect pose collapses, when the curated smile loses its discipline,

when the chin drops a fraction too low, when a shadow reveals a line she tries to hide, that’s when beauty arrives.

Not beauty as appearance, but beauty as presence.

Perfection Is a Mask, Imperfection Is a Signature

Perfection is generic.

You can copy it, retouch it, filter it, manufacture it.

But imperfection?

That is personal.

Unique.

Non-transferable.

It’s the tiny asymmetry in the face, the crease formed by a real laugh, the softness under the eye after a long night, the scar she calls “ugly,” the gesture she tries to correct, the innocence she thinks she has lost.

These fragments compose a face like notes in a score.

Remove one, and the music collapses.

What a Photographer Knows That Most Don’t

People think flaws make them less beautiful.

A photographer knows the opposite:

flaws are the only proof that beauty is alive.

A wrinkle is a memory.

A line is personality.

A scar is story.

A slight asymmetry is character aligning itself with truth.

The eye doesn’t fall in love with perfection, it falls in love with recognition.

With the thing that makes you you, not interchangeable with anyone else.

Women Are Trained to Hide What Makes Them Magnetic

Society trains women to erase themselves:

smooth the skin,

deny the age,

tighten the jawline,

correct the nose,

perform youth,

perform symmetry,

perform softness.

But all this is theatre.

A woman becomes stunning not when she corrects herself, but when she inhabits herself.

What she calls “difetti,” I call coordinates of identity.

Why I Photograph the Way I Do

I wait for the moment when the woman in front of me gives up the performance, when she forgets the narrative she has rehearsed for years, when her face returns to its natural intelligence.

That moment is never perfect.

It is always flawed.

And deeply, painfully, irresistibly beautiful.

It’s the moment when she is not a role,

not a version, not a pose, but a person.

And the camera, finally, can tell the truth.

Final Reflection

A woman’s beauty is not an aesthetic formula.

It is a mathematical truth:

the sum of her small imperfections reveals the shape of her soul.

Perfection is forgettable.

Imperfection is unforgettable.

Because it is real.

And reality, when it dares to show itself, is the most beautiful thing a human being can offer.