Inside Studio 54, dressing up wasn't just about looking elegant. It meant becoming part of the show. A woman crosses the dance floor wrapped in sequins, the fabric catching the light and seemingly dissolving into movement. Just a few feet away, someone is wearing running shorts, knee-high socks, and barely anything else. There is no shared dress code—only the unspoken rule of bringing your body to the peak of its presence.

The core of Joseph Rodriguez’s work resides in the imperceptible distance between the photographer and his subjects. Born and raised in Brooklyn, and trained at the School of Visual Arts and the International Center of Photography's photojournalism program, Rodriguez dedicated a crucial portion of his practice to Spanish Harlem—also known as East Harlem or El Barrio.

Against the Baggy Clothes, Thrashed Shoes, and Open Plazas: The Identity of 90s Skate Culture

Against the Obsession with Major Milestones: The Quiet Return to the Beauty of Ordinary Life

Women's Surfing Has Already Shifted—Now the Way We Tell Its Story Must Change

Nonna-Maxxing: The Viral Trend Making Gen Z Fall in Love with Italian Grandmothers @ostras_pedrin Valencia

In a Culture Obsessed with the Answer, Listening has Become a Countercultural ActWe live inside ever-faster conversations.

Vans: The Shoe Transformed by Skateboarding into a Global Language

Posters, Clothes, and Clutter: The Emotional Archive of a Pre-Social Media Generation

Today, summer is synonymous with the sea, aperitifs at sunset, and days without a schedule. But the very concept of a vacation is much more recent than one might think. For centuries, travel was not for leisure: it was for education, trade, or necessity.

A red car packed with kids, the tailgate open on a country road. A ball rolling down a cobblestone alley while two kids play tennis with a single racket. Hands stained with tomato breaking off pieces of bruschetta in the sun. A ride on a Vespa along the waterfront, without a helmet. The images scroll by, all looking the same, especially in the summer, across dozens of accounts: grainy film, low light, no smartphones in sight. The caption, almost always, says the same thing. O

There were clubs without specific signs, concerts announced with poorly photocopied flyers, hand-duplicated cassettes, and DJs who became legends without ever showing their faces. Music, before being content, was an environment. A physical space to navigate. It took time to enter it: you had to know where to go, who to follow, what to look for. Today, music is everywhere. It flows continuously through TikTok, algorithmic playlists, Reels, fifteen-second snippets, and weekl

In Derek Ridgers’ photographs, there is a moment when style ceases to be mere surface and becomes a language. It is not fashion—or at least not yet. It is something more rigid and urgent: a code. A way to recognize one another, to declare oneself, to exist in public space without having to explain anything.

Arms crossed, shoulders rolled back, chin up, eyes fixed on the lens. This is the pose with which Run-DMC introduced themselves to the world. It’s the way generations of rappers have faced the camera.

Ask the Girls in Cairo, a short film presented by NOWNESS and directed by JP Micallef, observes this practice without narrative filters, restoring skateboarding to its most authentic meaning: an urban language capable of expressing identity, belonging, and self-determination. That territory now possesses a lexicon of its own. Those under thirty don’t talk about "stories," "couples," or "ongoing relationships." They talk about talking stages, situationships, and soft launche

There was a moment, impossible to date precisely, when the word "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" began to sound antiquated. Not wrong, not ridiculous, but simply insufficient. Like a paper map in the age of GPS coordinates: still readable, but incapable of describing the actual territory. That territory now possesses a lexicon of its own. Those under thirty don’t talk about "stories," "couples," or "ongoing relationships." They talk about talking stages, situationships, and sof

There are cities you have to describe, and then there’s Paris, which seems to tell its own story. You only need to walk a few blocks to feel like you’re inside a scene you’ve seen before: soft lights, retro signs, café tables that are always full, people talking for hours without haste. It’s not manufactured; it’s not a set. It is simply the way the city exists.

There is a photograph in which two women sit on the same sofa. They aren't doing anything extraordinary: one looks toward the lens, the other seems lost in thought. Around them is an ordinary room: books, objects, traces of daily life. There is no grand gesture, no explicit declaration.

An arcade on the boardwalk, the sharp clink of tokens against the cabinets. A small-town square at nine in the evening, mopeds parked in a row, groups forming and dissolving without needing to call one another. In the bedroom, above the bed: posters, tapes, magazine clippings—a personal composition that already resembles a timeline, yet remains static, private, and non-updatable.

An upper-floor apartment in a building on East Fourth Street, between Avenue A and B. To head up the stairs, you have to give advance notice: the local kids protect those who live there. On the fifth floor, a twenty-four-year-old with red lipstick and a faux beauty mark opens the door, serving espresso and bubblegum on a silver tray. Her name is Madonna Louise Ciccone. In six weeks, she will release her first album. But today, she is still just the girl from the Funhouse and