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. Once upon a time, the

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 weekly releases designed

There is a photograph in which everything seems on the verge of breaking. Two bodies close together, direct gazes, the dim light of an ordinary interior. There is no distance, no protection. Nan Goldin wasn’t observing that scene: she was part of it. The same goes for Mark Morrisroe, who in his self-portraits transformed his own existence into visual material, unfiltered, defenseless. In the 1980s, between New York and Boston, photography ceased to be a document and became survival.