Laureline and Gianni are in love, one is in Italy, the other is in Portugal. 2515 kilometers separate Rome from Lisbon overland. And yet, as passionate as they are, they live the same life. The result is the use of “we” to recount with Gianni’s pen the days lived and photographed by Laureline.
At the end of January she landed in Italy, he in Portugal. The epidemic then seemed a distant mirage, outside of Rome and their student carefree attitude. Then, over the course of a weekend, the city was cordoned off. Laureline got stuck in her apartment, her only freedom of movement to go to work. An unknown situation, they spent long hours on the phone to find their true home. Photography was then, for her, the means of recovering this stolen freedom, by snatching instants from life crumbling under her lens. Writing is, for him, a privileged means of expression.
Feelings on the way to work
Would life have left the shores of Italy without turning back? A city nearly three thousand years old stops, turns off, a black screen on which life is no longer sweet. In quarantine, a path to go to work her only freedom of movement. Looking for freedom in the quiet streets suddenly noiseless, on the faces of the few humans who still dare to put their mouths, their noses, in the “free” air. Panic marched on Rome, in battle order, from the north, as history has it. The surrender was almost immediate, what resistance to the medical syllogism? The Rubicon has once again been crossed. Rome rocks, Rome falters, Rome gropes in anguish. The sharp eyes, the distance maintained, 1 meter, the desire for soapy water in everyone’s mind. The daily life of all of Italy, our sixty million neighbours.
Photography to probe the invisible, the embarrassment, fear, suspicion. Photography to tell the bastions of life lived. Photography to show the empire of life suffered. Through these few photos, we will try to transcribe what has become of Rome, from a museum city to a city frozen in the sun of Mars. These people are those of a bloodless Rome, this story is that of a disappearance, this life is that of empty places, of drawn metal curtains, of an absence that has gradually colonized this city: Rome, closed city.
DAY 1: PRECAUTION
No case of coronavirus in Rome, yet the Romans are affected. Nowhere yet it is everywhere. The faces are covered with scarves, the hands gloved, the space and the emptiness in the buses. The elders are already bundled up in their protective clothing. It’s so beautiful today.
DAY 2: HESITATION
The decree of March 9 plunges the whole country into quarantine. All museums and cinemas are closed. Restaurants and bars open only until 6 p.m. Only supermarkets and pharmacies are not subject to restrictions.
We wander the streets in the center, looking for a meal. Like some other undecided, we have the idea of going to Piazza Navona, to take advantage of this special moment: Rome without a tourist. What awaits us is not the satisfaction of the admirable fountains, but the ambient embarrassment. The street vendors are idle, the restaurants touts passives . Everyone wonders if it is right to be here. Perhaps unconsciously, everyone keeps their distance. This city of encounters, bars and aperitivo, discussions in the cafe and the incessant noise of motorized vehicles, has this city evaporated under the fever of patients from the north? They are all now making big circles to avoid us. Distance will become the new courtesy.
The mind scrutinizes the ruins of a bygone future.
Lofty, standing straight, we don’t know who from the obelisk
or woman is the most irremovable.
But the eye does not deceive,
The fog obstructs the horizon,
And those eyes question what can still be.
The stale air leads to suspicion,
What if it was me? And if it was him ?
Frowning for a reason,
Reason that will not return.
DAY 3: MARKET PANIC
Behind the last turrets of a city that is becoming empty, a substantial space that will soon force sobriety.
These last cans, this final drunkenness, is the ultimate escape
Perhaps only prose can sketch the features of a life arid of all distraction, and yet. This hop shines like the last treasure of Rome, it will go down certain palates, will help forget certain cares, and sometimes perhaps will become the master? We can only speculate, but it is precisely this habit of using hypothesis which punctuates Roman lives. The dead are there and there is almost no salad left. The green of hope flows into the over-filled grocery carts of the Romans always in a rush. There is not much left. Certainty is already far away. And yet, without knowing it, today, Rome is the only object of my feeling.
DAY 4: SLIDING
The terraces are still dotted with those who try to drink their coffee through their mask, the streets are sometimes crossed by those who do not change sidewalk at the sight of the other, the city remains, for now, for those who see in their reason a reason sufficient to exonerate the one who comes. It seems that there is, in spite of everything, in certain looks, in certain gestures, in certain attitudes, an unshakable, inexorable, insoluble ounce of Love.
But rumor has it that cafes will soon be closed, and every second walks into a suspicious future.
DAY 5: DISTANCE
Photograph taken from the 628 bus leading us to work
The meter for safety,
The disciple of fear.
I am locked up at home on the street.
Today, looks like a bad scenario, we thought we were in a nightmare by rubbing shoulders with all those who no longer dared touch each other. The contact, however visual, has become an ordeal for some. This Italy of human wormth can no longer smile. This meter is impassable.
DAY 6: DESERTION
Dinner in the shade
New decree: all restaurants are closed.
The motionless furniture awaits those who will no longer come,
The light slowly retreats, darkness will soon fill the void.
Locked down
Even she seems trapped in the situation
We imagine the nostalgic silence of the noise, we suppose the knocking cutlery, the more or less loud words, the glasses of wine clinking to the rhythm of the “salutes”, the parsimonious belching. And all this before, this past still present somewhere. This painting which constituted what seemed eternal. Only remains the night and a plant. The only source of color in this sanitized cavity of all life. Matera looks haggardly at this farce, she was the first to experience the drama of dark cellars and illness. If Christ stopped at Eboli, he also did not know this modern hell where man no longer knows what it is to be two or more. The greedy Rome remains cloistered, the asceticism suffered remains almost outrageous, Italy is united in waiting.
DAY 7: SALVATION
Fear and tremors
Dirty hands
The eternal city today bears the rags of doubt
Lonely prayers seek the one god
Masses canceled, lost sheeps
Only prophet Hippocrates remains
Give alms to the infected shout the hypocrites
Salvation men swapped their cassocks for white coats
Latin remains their learned language
Amazed eyes call for grace
They receive a viscous body gel and pure water for blood
Blessed are those who believe in redemption
Let’s bow our heads, we’ll find out, facing the red or green cross
Blessed be the order of the Camillians and our Savior Saint-Camille de Lellis.
BIOGRAPHY :
Laureline Bobin is 23 years old, she studies international cooperation at Sciences Po Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Fascinated by the Japanese world she spent one year in Tokyo where she discovered photography, she settled in Rome for her final year internship
Gianni De Georgi is 22 years old He is studying criminal law, at Sciences Po Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
