When I was a kid, I hated joining the Holy Week in Taranto, my hometown. No idea why – it just made me feel uneasy. The only thing that calmed me down was the little chick my dad used to buy me… which, cruelly, always died after a couple of days. Years later, when I started shooting photos, it was obvious I’d go back to that ritual. At first, I was drawn to the spectacle – the statues carried for hours through the city, and the perdùne, those hooded, barefoot men walking all night under the weight of faith and tradition. The world changed though. The internet reshaped our habits, our art, our sense of connection. Everything became faster, noisier, lonelier. Yet these people still carried on, year after year, with the same passion. I couldn’t get my head around it – especially knowing how much of it is tied to money, status, even organised crime. The statues are literally auctioned off, and everyone – priests, businessmen, the local elite – fight for their turn to carry one. So I kept asking myself: why? Why walk barefoot for hours, dragging those heavy statues to slow, mournful music? Surely it’s not just about showing off. There are two main brotherhoods in town, each preparing all year for their own procession. What happens that day is just the tip of something much deeper – a mix of devotion, love, guilt, superstition, and hope.

This project is long-term. I shot it with my old Nikon FE, 35mm, same as always. One round of photos wasn’t enough – I had to go back, year after year, sometimes without the camera, just to feel it again. This series comes from the first phase of that journey – the hours before the procession begins. The brothers pray, get dressed, the bishop blesses them, and finally, the church doors open. The crowd outside is huge – locals, tourists, believers – and the procession moves off painfully slow. Those hours before it all starts are charged with emotion. Every face hides a story – someone praying for a loved one’s health, a wife crying for her husband in prison, a nun lost in ecstasy. When the doors finally open, the air itself feels electric. For one night, they all become saints for a day.