matteo buonomo
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The more people are forced to share a physical space the more they build an inner distance from those around. For more than two years, Iíve been photographing the lives of those around me since I moved to a remote village of less than 50 people in Southern Italy. The place itself is not important, it's forgettable, it might be any rural area and would probably feel like here to me. I donít have much around me, there are no shops, no public transportation, no traffic lights, no advertising billboard along the streets yet I feel I do have all I need to create something that talks about a common feeling, a longing of escapism, the pursuit of a spark of grace in a silence or in an intimate moment shared with another person lying on the grass. All crucial things that many have been longing for a long time and especially while and right after the pandemic. More than ever before. It was time to regain a dimension that for many of us was lost long ago. A vastness made of huge empty spaces, a land not scratched by concrete buildings, boundless mall parking, trains that run underground packed with people engulfed on their phones waiting for their stop to get off. When the Rooster Crows Twice is a tender and introspective attempt to retrace that space made of common sharing with people and nature.