Paolo Del Rocino Photography

19/08/2026

A walk through EUR, where architecture becomes rhythm: repeated arches, monumental perspectives, empty spaces and figures suspended between stone and sunlight.

06/08/2026

At Rome’s Festa de’ Noantri, faith moves through the crowd.

Between processions, waiting, gestures and fleeting encounters, the celebration becomes a collective portrait of the city. Sacred and ordinary, intimate and chaotic, suspended between devotion and everyday life.

Photographed in Trastevere, Rome.

04/08/2026

My new portfolio web site is online!

https://www.paolodelrocino.it

27/07/2026

We’re used to picturing Val d’Orcia as rolling hills, lonely cypress trees, and golden sunset light. But the moment you point your lens at the people, the story transforms completely.

There’s a common belief that street photography only belongs to the chaos of bustling metropolises. The truth is, it’s all about how you look at the world: no matter where you go, the people and spontaneous moments will always find a way to surprise you.

11/07/2026

A collection of faces met by chance, moments offered and received in the flow of the street.
These portraits are not only about appearance, but about presence: a glance, a gesture, a brief suspension between photographer and stranger.

The series looks for the human texture of the city, with its tenderness, confidence, silence, irony, and small unexpected connections.

Thank you to everyone who allowed me to take these portraits.

09/07/2026

In these streets, everyone seems to pass through a different version of the city: tourists framing ancient columns, runners cutting through the light, workers waiting in silence, strangers caught between errands, pauses, and small private thoughts.

Street photography is often about what almost disappears: a gesture, a reflection, a face crossing the frame, the brief moment when the city reveals its human rhythm.

17/05/2026

22/01/2026

Muse: Dixon Inkheart ZK

EN:
In the beginning I was marble, a prisoner,
shaped by hands that were not my own.
An artist, proud of his chisel,
gave me forms I had never chosen.
“You are beauty,” he said, and he forced a smile upon me—
pliant curves, eyes lowered to the world.
He did not ask me who I was or what I wanted;
he made me for his gaze, not for my spirit.

But time flows even over immortal stone,
and beneath the surface, I felt the call:
a dull heartbeat, a muffled voice,
a hidden soul that begged for freedom.
The cracks, at first, were thin,
but through those wounds I began to speak.
“I am not yours,” I said to the emptiness of his studio,
“I am not your dream—I am my awakening.”

My stone fingers stirred, just barely,
the carved smile shattered into a cry.
From rigidity was born a current,
new shapes that only I could choose.
I renounced the outlines he had imposed,
the docile face, the forced harmony.
I shaped myself, piece by piece,
destroying the image of his possession.

Now I am fragments dancing free,
a living mosaic, never static again.
I am no longer statue, nor prisoner—
I am woman, I am fire, I am real.
And to anyone who still tries to carve me to their liking,
I say only: “Look.
I do not belong to you.
I am what I choose to be.”

IT:
In principio ero marmo, prigioniera,
plasmata da mani che non erano mie.
Un artista, fiero del suo scalpello,
mi diede forme che non avevo scelto.
“Sei bellezza,” disse, e mi impose un sorriso,
curve docili, occhi chini sul mondo.
Non mi chiese chi fossi o cosa volessi,
mi creò per il suo sguardo, non per il mio spirito.

Ma il tempo scorre anche su pietra immortale,
e sotto la superficie, sentii il richiamo:
un battito sordo, una voce soffocata,
un'anima nascosta che chiedeva libertà.
Le crepe, all'inizio, erano sottili,
ma da quelle ferite cominciai a parlare.
“Non sono tua,” dissi al vuoto del suo atelier,
“non sono il tuo sogno, sono il mio risveglio.”

Le dita di pietra si mossero appena,
il sorriso scolpito si spezzò in un grido.
Dalla rigidità nacque il fluire,
forme nuove, che io sola potevo scegliere.
Rinnegai i contorni che mi aveva imposto,
il volto docile, l'armonia forzata.
Mi plasmavo da sola, pezzo dopo pezzo,
distruggendo l'immagine del suo possesso.

Ora sono frammenti che danzano liberi,
un mosaico vivo, mai più statico.
Non sono più statua, né prigioniera,
sono donna, sono fuoco, sono vera.
E a chi tenta ancora di scolpirmi a suo piacere,
dico solo: “Guarda.
Io non appartengo a te.
Io sono ciò che scelgo di essere.”