One hundred and eleven years ago, in 1912, the Titanic was torn apart by a collision with an iceberg.
Since then, through two world wars and countless catastrophes of all kinds, this event has always been the perfect metaphor for punished Hybris and the looming end of the world amidst general unconsciousness. Nothing more topical then: dancing on the deck of the Titanic as it sinks has become commonplace.
A few evenings ago, I was taking photographs at EUR, a district of Rome made up almost entirely of offices, which after sunset takes on a ghostly air of abandonment as if every evening the pandemic were raging again, when, crossing a deserted square, I heard the notes of a tango echoing under the portico.
Several couples of dance enthusiasts had gathered to dance in that lonely, abandoned place. With a minimal choreography consisting of the porch columns and the light of a spotlight to contour and highlight the shadows, the dancers took on the immaterial appearance of cheerful ghosts as I photographed them.
There was a magical atmosphere there, somewhere between surreal dreaming and dancing on the edge of the abyss, the deck of the Titanic to be precise, waiting for the last rising wave to do justice, leaving the portico desolately empty.