IT

In this conversation, Matteo de Mayda looks back at some of his works, offering an alternative vision of photography: not merely a method for depicting the world, but a way of experiencing it and actively being part of it. de Mayda explains how his process of layering research materials leads to a reshuffling of the deck, opening up new perspectives and different realities.

Within the contemporary landscape of visual research, Matteo de Mayda (Treviso, 1984) stands out for his layered, collaborative and deeply social approach. Whether he is chronicling journeys of redemption, exploring the complexity of human identities through the lens of football, or highlighting the fragility of the Venetian ecosystem with projects such as Laguna minore, the photographer paves the way for dialogue. This is achieved through the interweaving of scientific and humanistic research, archival sources and an interpretation of the landscape.
By rejecting over-represented and stereotypical narratives, de Mayda constructs a poetics of listening and belonging. A journey in which engagement with curatorship and editorial design becomes a fundamental space for mediation and compromise, capable of challenging the very role of the image in the contemporary context. The work thus transforms into a collaborative project where the artist’s identity merges with that of the territory they choose to depict and with the community with whom they share the process.

THE INTERVIEW WITH MATTEO DE MAYDA

In the past, you have cited Nicolò Degiorgis and Alessandro Imbriaco as key influences. As your practice has evolved, are there any new photographers who now influence your perspective?
Having cited these two photographers as points of reference indicates my starting point and, with that, the sense of wonder they sparked in me: ‘the fact that they didn’t get so close to things’. They approached photography not to sensationalise places and events. One example is Imbriaco’s project Casilino 900, in which he depicted the largest nomad camp in the whole of Europe, in Rome, making such a spectacular situation less striking. This also harks back to earlier figures such as August Sander or the couple Bernd and Hilla Becher, whose photography is almost timeless because they seek to categorise buildings and faces without situating them in a specific “here and now”.
Turning instead to more contemporary influences, I am interested in layered works such as Fabio Barile’s Homage to James Hutton, for which he collaborated with the geologist Antonio Moretti on the L’Aquila earthquake, taking photographs of the landscape framing the site just four years after the destruction, thus avoiding focusing on the horrific spectacle. His gaze was not directed at the earthquake’s devastation, on which everyone else was focusing, but on what followed and what surrounded that place: indeed, the geologist drew on the photographs Barile took, illustrating the earth’s movements. In this way, two different languages are combined, giving rise to new meanings and new ways of conceiving that image, enriching it with detail.
In my latest projects, I seek precisely this layering of archive images, scientific elements and my own photographs to offer new narratives and make photography a medium closely linked to other data that can provide the viewer with further guidance in interpreting what is happening or what has happened.

What you say, in fact, highlights the dual nature of photography: it began as a technical medium and a scientific innovation, only to evolve into one of the principal art forms. In this context, photography manages, through this layered approach, to encompass and interweave a multitude of diverse fields and disciplines: fields and disciplines by which we are constantly surrounded. This is very different from what we read in books or are accustomed to studying from a more traditional and historical perspective.
In this way, we also seek to challenge a univocal perspective, which tends to impose a single interpretation of reality. By shuffling the deck, creating a dialogue between images, archival materials and other forms of expression, it is possible to construct new imaginaries and open the door to different interpretations. Photography, in fact, always presents a particular viewpoint, but through the layering of materials and perspectives it can become a tool capable of conveying a more complex and multi-layered reality.

MATTEO DE MAYDA’S PROJECTS

From your collaborations with Emergency, the Una Barena Intera project, and your work in Padua prison, a focus on social issues, and, at times, their political dimension, emerges, albeit in a discreet and subtle manner. Do you find this aspect significant in your own work?
Yes, certainly this influence stems from the books by Gino Strada that I read during my sixth-form years, which made me reflect on the career path I would prefer to follow. When I started taking photographs, I contacted Emergency to help document the social work they were carrying out. In the very same year that I began this collaboration, I had the opportunity to take photographs as part of the Programma Italia initiative dedicated to migrants harvesting fruit and vegetables in the countryside of southern Italy. This approach has certainly stayed with me and is also evident in Laguna minore, the latest body of work I presented at Cortona On The Move, in which I see a strong political and activist dimension. The Venetian Lagoon suffers from stereotypical over-representation, the result of the speculative dynamics that suffocate it and ultimately obscure the vital ecosystem that sustains it. I chose to call the project Laguna minore precisely because it focuses on the Lagoon environment and practices of reappropriation, completely excluding the classic images of Venice. The islands of Sant’Andrea and Poveglia are a striking example of forms of community reappropriation, which thereby prevent their privatisation. In particular, the association Poveglia per Tutti has spearheaded a citizens’ campaign to restore the island to collective use, whilst Sant’Andrea has been entrusted to the Microclima association following a public tender, opening up new possibilities for care and shared use.
This reappropriation also extends to flora and fauna: we have documented, for example, the colonisation by ibises. These birds, historically linked to ancient Egypt, now inhabit the Lagoon due to climate change, the abundance of waste resulting from overtourism, and the absence of predators. The same applies to the countless plants now thriving on the salt marshes: fragile yet extremely vital forms of life for the Venice Lagoon. The political dimension is always present in my research, not in a party-political sense, but as a daily and civic practice, linked to the way we live and look after one another. Even Brilla Sempre, the book dedicated to my mother, has a political dimension for me: themes such as precarious work, motherhood and the living conditions of a generation of women, often on the margins of collective memory, emerge through our story.

As for the Padua prison, could you tell us how the project came about and whether you’re still carrying it out?
Yes, the prison system is another issue that is particularly close to my heart. I find the Italian approach to sentencing to be anachronistic and ineffective. We continue to respond to violence by imposing harsher sentences, focusing on the consequences rather than on prevention and education. Some estimates suggest reoffending rates of around 80 per cent for those released from prison without a rehabilitation programme, whilst for those who have access to work, training and psychological support, these rates can fall to as low as 5%.  Beyond the percentages, this difference should be enough to make us reflect on the futility of punishment as an end in itself and on the importance of projects such as that run by Pasticceria Giotto, within Padua prison, where prisoners learn a trade, receive a wage and build real opportunities for their future. I like to tackle complex issues by starting with seemingly light-hearted situations, such as the making of a panettone or the world of football. These are opportunities to explore deeper issues linked to identity, society and politics.
I often try to bring this approach to work commissioned by newspapers and magazines too, proposing stories that reflect my personal interests. This was also the case with Pasticceria Giotto, a feature I proposed myself. Commissioned work thus allows me to continue taking photographs, engage with different situations and fund long-term research projects, which require a different timeframe and approach. These are two aspects of my practice that I consider complementary.

PHOTOGRAPHY ACCORDING TO MATTEO DE MAYDA

Whilst the current debate swings between the past and the future, between the return of analogue and the advent of AI, where do you stand? Do you still use film for some of your work?
I believe we are simply going through a transitional phase that we are not yet fully prepared to handle. Every technological evolution brings with it a period of scepticism or upheaval. Think back to when football matches first started being broadcast on the radio: there were protests because it was felt that radio commentary would drive people away from the stadium and distort the experience of supporting the team. The same thing happened with the advent of television and, more recently, with the shift from film to digital. Today, with artificial intelligence, I get the impression we’re in that sort of phase: a transitional period in which we haven’t yet developed the right cultural tools to integrate it. As for me, I shoot predominantly digitally, given both the costs of analogue photography and the pace of commissioned work. Consequently, I feel extremely at ease with digital photography even in my personal projects. When it comes to artificial intelligence, the main concerns today relate to the protection of rights and intellectual property: these generative models are trained by reworking texts and images created by authors, often without acknowledging them. It is a dynamic reminiscent of that of social media: tools with great potential, which we have adopted rapidly without developing a full awareness of their implications and their effects on society.
It is a dynamic that particularly affects generations like mine, born in one era and propelled into another, whilst I imagine that the younger generations will be able to navigate this transition more naturally. I take a very down-to-earth approach to my profession: photography is an important part of my life, but not the only thing that matters. If one day the role of the photographer were to be drastically scaled back, I would simply find other ways and other means to express myself and earn a living. Emmanuel Carrère recounted how he had asked ChatGPT to write in his style: the result was not yet convincing, but in his view it would probably become so within a few years. He also observed that, paradoxically, intellectual jobs might be the first to be replaced, whilst manual labour would be much more difficult to automate.

In all your photographic projects, dialogue and collaboration with others seem fundamental. On the one hand, there is your long-standing partnership with Cosimo Bizzarri: how important is personal rapport to the success of a project? On the other hand, there is your relationship with your subjects: how much does this influence your personality and your work?
I have been collaborating with Cosimo Bizzarri for over ten years. During this time, he has closely followed practically all my projects and is undoubtedly one of the people who have had the greatest influence on my career. What I admire most about him is his ability to identify the archetype at the heart of every story, and then to broaden the reflection and create connections that I hadn’t initially considered. More recently, I published with the researcher and lecturer Amina Chouaïri Lagoonal Capriccio, a book distributed by Witty Books that analyses a specific part of the Lagoon environment. Working with Amina, who has a deep understanding of landscape architecture, is reassuring for me: engaging with experts greatly enriches the project. It is not merely a matter of professional affinity, but of sharing goals and human values. Given my nature, I prefer a multi-layered approach: it comes naturally to me to collaborate with universities, institutions, ornithologists or even school pupils, incorporating their perspectives and archival material into my work. Allowing others’ perspectives to challenge my own ideas is what brings out the true nature of the project. With the exception of the deeply personal work dedicated to my mother, I find it difficult to imagine working in complete solitude.

We now find ourselves in a deeply divided and divisive landscape: we are caught in limbo between strong collectivism and strong individualism, both of which are characterised by fierce competition.
I believe that, fundamentally, two parallel and opposing forces are at play in this debate. The more intense the push becomes on one side, the more it generates a counter-reaction. On the one hand, we are witnessing fierce competition and highly individualistic approaches; on the other, virtuous initiatives centred on collaboration are emerging. I am thinking, for example, of Kublaiklan, a Turin-based collective now entirely dedicated to participatory photography. It is a polarisation that somewhat mirrors current social and political dynamics: just as we are witnessing the expansion of feminist movements and, at the same time, the resurgence of ultra-conservative models, so too do opposing forces coexist in the art world. However, the most contemporary sensibility seems to me to be oriented towards greater fluidity. In today’s most interesting exhibitions and projects, it seems to me that there is almost always an attempt to go beyond the single shot and the single signature, blurring the lines between categories and blending individualities to convey the complexity of reality.

Still on the subject of collaborating with other professionals, from an editorial perspective, you have, for example, worked with studio bruno on various projects. Do you often rely on others to handle the editorial side of things? Is it a process of total delegation, or do you also get involved personally?
With studio bruno, for example, I have just completed Visual experiments made with the communities hit by Vaia, a new book produced thanks to the Basilico Prize, which is due to be published on 28 October, the anniversary of Storm Vaia. Over time, I’ve learnt to trust the editorial process completely with them. I admit I was more rigid at the start: seeing my images taken apart and reassembled according to a different logic threw me off balance. Then, looking at the result, I realised that their vision worked better. I don’t see them as mere graphic designers who choose a good font or lay out images well: they are true co-authors who interpret the material and create a new editorial work, endowed with its own meaning. It took some time, but today, relying on them is reassuring.

EXHIBITIONS AND CURATORSHIP

Do you see the curator as a necessary mediator for bringing an effective exhibition to life, or do you prefer to retain control over the layout and spatial narrative of your exhibitions? What is the most difficult compromise you have had to accept?
I’ve had a wide variety of experiences: ranging from the curator you meet for the first time on the opening day to the one who wants to discuss every single detail of the exhibition notes. I won’t deny that making compromises can be quite a struggle at first, but in the end it almost always turns out to be a process of learning and profound growth. My collaboration with Renata Ferri on the exhibition at Cortona On The Move was also very stimulating. We had the chance to engage in intense discussions and even “bicker” a little, but always with the shared aim of presenting the work through the exhibition in the best possible way. I believe that some of the most interesting solutions for the exhibition design emerged precisely from this exchange of ideas. Another inspiring experience in terms of shared vision was my collaboration with Stefania Rössl and Massimo Sordi of OMNE (Osservatorio Mobile Nord Est). They involved me, along with four other artists, in When the Sea Moves – a project on the erosion of Italy’s coastlines that led to the publication of five separate volumes (including my work on the Lagoon, carried out with Amina Chouaïri). A fluid, human and stimulating dialogue developed with them, fostered by a deep affinity in our perspectives and tastes.

But when you realise that the goal isn’t shared or you can’t find common ground, how does that work? Because the work still has to be completed.
Just recently, I collaborated with Giovanna Calvenzi, head of the Gabriele Basilico Archive, on the book Visual experiments made with the communities hit by Vaia. It was another opportunity to engage with an experience and sensibility different from my own, challenging some of my convictions. Over time, I have learnt that working with other professionals also means knowing how to leave room for interpretations and solutions that I hadn’t initially considered. I believe it is important not to lose sight of the common goal. For me, compromise does not mean giving up one’s own artistic identity, but finding together the best way to convey the essence of the project.

You have created a language capable of fostering a dialogue between landscape photography, documentary photography, architectural photography and archival photography. This ties in with identity, a theme you often address, even indirectly, through your work. Do you think you’ve found your identity? People often talk about the central theme of an exhibition; what do you think is the central theme of your photography?
I believe I’ve found a visual language and a structure in my practice that reflect who I am at this moment, but that doesn’t mean they won’t change in the near future. I’m someone who tends to get bored easily with myself and my own images, and I consider it natural that my way of working might evolve. Recently, the Venice Lagoon has undoubtedly become the key theme of my work. My friends often tease me about this strong connection, but it’s an environment I feel deeply part of. Venice is like a small village: despite all its limitations, it retains a very strong sense of community. There is a sort of mutual care, a shared responsibility for how we look after the city, from cuisine to art. This leads me to constantly question how I choose to portray Venice and its landscape. This bond has been further strengthened by the scattering of my mother’s ashes in the Lagoon. Knowing that she is now part of these waters has deepened my relationship with this ecosystem even further. At this stage of my life, I feel I’m able to give and receive value above all in the contexts I know intimately, where relationships and ideas can develop naturally. Lately, I’ve been focusing mainly on salt marshes, flora, birdlife, and land reclamation dikes, but I don’t know how long this phase will last. I don’t think you necessarily have to be a photographer your whole life: I find it healthy and natural to recognize when you feel the need to change course. In the meantime, I’m taking a rowing class, maybe one day I’ll become a gondolier, and that’ll be just fine.

Rubina Stradella

Matteo de Mayda

The text has been translated in English using AI