The lost world, the lost pathos: Interview with Paolo di Paolo & daughter Silvia di Paolo
The Chinese version is published on NUMERO CHINA 90, June/July 2019.
Interview & translation by Yiping Lin
Paolo Di Paolo
Foto © Musacchio, Ianniello, Pasqualini
Questions
for Paolo di Paolo
Young people in China learn about postwar Rome from the Italian neorealist cinema and the auteurs it inspired, i.e. Rossellini, de Sica, Fellini, Antonioni, etc. What was it like when you first started shooting in the aftermath of WWII in the city of Rome? What did you expect to achieve with photography in the beginning?
Paolo di Paolo: Post-war Rome was not really the one that various film directors, each in their own way, would have us believe. It was, as it had always been, a city that was indifferent to ostensible social change. In short, it was proud of being a unique, eternal city.
That’s what Rome was like when I started out as a photographer, which is why I wanted to document it by capturing images that could define what gave it that eternal quality. Quite the undertaking, I’m sure you’ll agree.
In university you studied philosophy and one of your teachers was Guido De Ruggiero, author of The History of European Liberalism. Looking back, how would you think studying philosophy has influenced your photography?
As well as De Ruggero, my university lecturers included Luigi Scaravelli, chair of theoretical philosophy at the Scuola Normale Superiore in Pisa, who mentored my dissertation on a minor work by Immanuel Kant entitled Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics That Will Be Able to Present Itself as a Science. Studying Kant has partly shaped the way in which I interpret everyday life and understand it through the filter of categories of the mind, albeit not necessarily the 12 categories proposed by the great German thinker. So it may well be true that I have a natural predisposition as a photographer which brings about the uniformity of language that critics and commentators have recognised in my work.
You said that ‘A photograph didn’t need to be beautiful, it needed to be good,’ for you what are the criteria of a good photograph?
A good photo is one where the goodness of the subject is not overshadowed by external beauty; this is the principle of Greek aesthetics, whereby pathos resulted from a fusion of kalos (beautiful) and agathos (good).
How was shooting celebrities different from shooting ordinary people?
It made no difference to me whether I was shooting celebrities or normal people. I always wanted to portray people intimately, but subtly. It nearly always worked, but I couldn't tell you why.
Pier Paolo Pasolini on Monte dei Cocci. Rome, 1960 © Paolo di Paolo
In 1959 you accompanied Pier Paolo Pasolini on a road trip
from Rome to Ventimiglia commissioned by the magazine Successo, which led to
the publication of Pasolini’s travel writings The Long Road of Sand, with your
photos documenting the trip. In the MAXXI exhibition mini-guide, you said “He
(Pasolini) was looking for a lost world, of literary ghosts, an Italy that no
longer existed – I was looking for an Italy which looked to the future”. Can
you elaborate a bit on what exactly had been lost at the time, that Pasolini
was obsessed with? And for you, what were you looking for? Did you also observe
a similar sense of nostalgia or alienation among the other intellectuals and
artists you have taken photographs with?
I believe that the sense of loss with which Pasolini was so obsessed was actually an unshakeable feeling of loneliness. I tried, unsuccessfully, on many occasions to help him break free. I’m sure he appreciated it, so much so that he asked me to shoot him up close and personal in the knowledge that I would discretely unveil some hitherto invisible aspects of his personality.
I didn't pick up on a similar “sense of nostalgia or alienation” in the other artists or intellectuals that I photographed. Nobody seemed to be as tormented as Pasolini. The only one I remember capturing in a moment of loss and artistic loneliness was Mario Mafai, the great painter who founded the Scuola Romana with Francalancia and Scipione. A jovial character prone to regular bouts of belly laughter, I found him in his studio one day sat in front of his easel, which bore a large canvas dotted with bits of rough twine. He looked worried and barely noticed I was there, acknowledging me distractedly. Tempo magazine had sent me to photograph him, and I had to shoot him as I found him. That evening, I mentioned it to his artist friends at Menghi’s restaurant. One of them ventured: “Mario is having an identity crisis; he doesn’t recognise himself in his old paintings and he’s desperately seeking a new identity, but can’t find one.”
The positivity, hope, glamour and vigour preserved in your photography in the 1950s and 1960s gradually came to a halt after you stopped shooting in 1968. The political climate of the country has witnessed drastic changes since then, and capitalism has taken on a more pessimistic, violent and catastrophic face in the neoliberalist age. Have you not for once thought about picking up the camera again to document the landscapes of history?
The way in which this question is formulated provides the answers to several others. This was revolution, not evolution. My generation was powerless, our only weapon being our passion from another time. It would be a fruitless and humiliating struggle. I could have used my camera to respond to new demands that were alien to me. I was lucky enough to be invited to work in the relative tranquillity and order of the editorial branch of the Carabinieri, where I stayed for about 50 years.
You put away your works for three decades until your daughter discovered them. What were your feelings when you first looked at them again after so long? Why would you never want to talk about them with anyone during all those years?
Although I always considered my incursion into photography as being temporary, that didn’t make it any less demanding. I didn't like to talk about it out of respect and discretion. I have only occasionally delved into my archive and looked back over the work I have done. The human mind is more extraordinary than any computer. While our memories are unlimited and unforgiving, mine has given me only thrills.
You have embarked on a very different path ever since - writing on history and philosophy. Can you tell us about your books and writings?
The Carabinieri gave me access to an unpublished and undiscovered part of Italian history via the day-to-day work of its stations. I was able to look at carefully guarded documents packed with tales of humanity, sacrifice and humility. The result was a series of historical monographs, about 20 volumes, and 43 editions of the famous Calendario Storico with a gargantuan print run of 1.3 million copies.
What cameras did you mostly used? What happened to your Leica III C afterwards?
I remained faithful to the Leica III C until, for image reasons, I was forced to switch to the Nikon F to bring myself into line with colleagues from Life, Paris Match or Stern, with whom I would sometimes have to work during exclusive events covered by a chosen few.
When Alessandro Michele selected one of your works with Pasolini in A Magazine Curated By and the Gucci exhibition of the same name, could you imagine the huge amount of attention and enthusiasm drawn to your works after? How do you feel about that?
I’m not being modest when I say that I would never in a million years have expected an exhibition of my photographs to be a success. But I began to believe when I learned that the man behind it was Alessandro Michele. I was aware of his extraordinary ability to create new languages, interpret and anticipate trends, and somehow always cause a sensation.
Silvia, can you tell us about yourself, and a bit of your family?
Silvia di Paolo: When I was born, in 1977, my father was 52 and my mother was 30. We lived in the countryside near Rome with cats and dogs. We had an olive grove, a garden and two little goats. My father was a historian and editor whose hobbies were restoring classic cars and growing grapes for wine. My mother took care of me and my brother. When we reached school age, we moved to Rome. My parents have always lived a very peaceful and low-profile life.
What was your impression of your father during your childhood and adolescent days? Did he like to take photographs for the family?
My father was strict and demanding. I’ve always had a strong personality and rebelled against him; during my adolescence we really butted heads. Then over the years I figured to how to earn his respect and he softened a little. I started working with him. He trained me as a graphic designer and art director and taught me to implement military-style discipline when expressing my creativity.
We don’t have a lot of family photos: the first day of school, the Christmas pageant, summer vacation in Greece… The same photos any parent has of their kids, taken with a regular small camera. His Leica and his old Nikon were also down in the basement behind a shoebox.
The day you discovered the 250,000 negatives of your father’s has changed the way the world knows about him. It must have been a massive shock for you. Could you tell us about that day? And how did these images finally get to be exposed to the world?
It was a tremendous surprise and really shocking! But making the archive public took a long time and was difficult. It took almost 20 years. My father didn’t want to talk about it. We had some heated discussions on the subject, and eventually my enthusiasm and curiosity overcame his desire to forget it all. I’d always seen him as a tireless scholar and worker; I had trouble imagining him as an elegant jet-setting creative who reinvented himself every day.
When I found the archive, my first reaction was anger; I was 18 at the time and dreamed of a glamorous life, and as I flipped through his files I saw the names of the greatest artists and actors in recent history. I could not understand why my parents were now spending all their time with “regular people”: parents of our schoolmates, mechanics my father liked to get together with to repair classic cars. But over time I came to understand this as well: for my father it was a way to forget his old life.
He trusted me and trusted that I would handle his past with love and care. For my 40th birthday he gave me the entire archive as a gift.
Today we enjoy a kind of symbiotic existence. I filter out the outside world for him. We love each other deeply and have mutual and unconditional gratitude for each other.
I believe that the sense of loss with which Pasolini was so obsessed was actually an unshakeable feeling of loneliness. I tried, unsuccessfully, on many occasions to help him break free. I’m sure he appreciated it, so much so that he asked me to shoot him up close and personal in the knowledge that I would discretely unveil some hitherto invisible aspects of his personality.
I didn't pick up on a similar “sense of nostalgia or alienation” in the other artists or intellectuals that I photographed. Nobody seemed to be as tormented as Pasolini. The only one I remember capturing in a moment of loss and artistic loneliness was Mario Mafai, the great painter who founded the Scuola Romana with Francalancia and Scipione. A jovial character prone to regular bouts of belly laughter, I found him in his studio one day sat in front of his easel, which bore a large canvas dotted with bits of rough twine. He looked worried and barely noticed I was there, acknowledging me distractedly. Tempo magazine had sent me to photograph him, and I had to shoot him as I found him. That evening, I mentioned it to his artist friends at Menghi’s restaurant. One of them ventured: “Mario is having an identity crisis; he doesn’t recognise himself in his old paintings and he’s desperately seeking a new identity, but can’t find one.”
The positivity, hope, glamour and vigour preserved in your photography in the 1950s and 1960s gradually came to a halt after you stopped shooting in 1968. The political climate of the country has witnessed drastic changes since then, and capitalism has taken on a more pessimistic, violent and catastrophic face in the neoliberalist age. Have you not for once thought about picking up the camera again to document the landscapes of history?
The way in which this question is formulated provides the answers to several others. This was revolution, not evolution. My generation was powerless, our only weapon being our passion from another time. It would be a fruitless and humiliating struggle. I could have used my camera to respond to new demands that were alien to me. I was lucky enough to be invited to work in the relative tranquillity and order of the editorial branch of the Carabinieri, where I stayed for about 50 years.
You put away your works for three decades until your daughter discovered them. What were your feelings when you first looked at them again after so long? Why would you never want to talk about them with anyone during all those years?
Although I always considered my incursion into photography as being temporary, that didn’t make it any less demanding. I didn't like to talk about it out of respect and discretion. I have only occasionally delved into my archive and looked back over the work I have done. The human mind is more extraordinary than any computer. While our memories are unlimited and unforgiving, mine has given me only thrills.
You have embarked on a very different path ever since - writing on history and philosophy. Can you tell us about your books and writings?
The Carabinieri gave me access to an unpublished and undiscovered part of Italian history via the day-to-day work of its stations. I was able to look at carefully guarded documents packed with tales of humanity, sacrifice and humility. The result was a series of historical monographs, about 20 volumes, and 43 editions of the famous Calendario Storico with a gargantuan print run of 1.3 million copies.
What cameras did you mostly used? What happened to your Leica III C afterwards?
I remained faithful to the Leica III C until, for image reasons, I was forced to switch to the Nikon F to bring myself into line with colleagues from Life, Paris Match or Stern, with whom I would sometimes have to work during exclusive events covered by a chosen few.
When Alessandro Michele selected one of your works with Pasolini in A Magazine Curated By and the Gucci exhibition of the same name, could you imagine the huge amount of attention and enthusiasm drawn to your works after? How do you feel about that?
I’m not being modest when I say that I would never in a million years have expected an exhibition of my photographs to be a success. But I began to believe when I learned that the man behind it was Alessandro Michele. I was aware of his extraordinary ability to create new languages, interpret and anticipate trends, and somehow always cause a sensation.
Questions for Silvia di Paolo
Silvia, can you tell us about yourself, and a bit of your family?
Silvia di Paolo: When I was born, in 1977, my father was 52 and my mother was 30. We lived in the countryside near Rome with cats and dogs. We had an olive grove, a garden and two little goats. My father was a historian and editor whose hobbies were restoring classic cars and growing grapes for wine. My mother took care of me and my brother. When we reached school age, we moved to Rome. My parents have always lived a very peaceful and low-profile life.
What was your impression of your father during your childhood and adolescent days? Did he like to take photographs for the family?
My father was strict and demanding. I’ve always had a strong personality and rebelled against him; during my adolescence we really butted heads. Then over the years I figured to how to earn his respect and he softened a little. I started working with him. He trained me as a graphic designer and art director and taught me to implement military-style discipline when expressing my creativity.
We don’t have a lot of family photos: the first day of school, the Christmas pageant, summer vacation in Greece… The same photos any parent has of their kids, taken with a regular small camera. His Leica and his old Nikon were also down in the basement behind a shoebox.
The day you discovered the 250,000 negatives of your father’s has changed the way the world knows about him. It must have been a massive shock for you. Could you tell us about that day? And how did these images finally get to be exposed to the world?
It was a tremendous surprise and really shocking! But making the archive public took a long time and was difficult. It took almost 20 years. My father didn’t want to talk about it. We had some heated discussions on the subject, and eventually my enthusiasm and curiosity overcame his desire to forget it all. I’d always seen him as a tireless scholar and worker; I had trouble imagining him as an elegant jet-setting creative who reinvented himself every day.
When I found the archive, my first reaction was anger; I was 18 at the time and dreamed of a glamorous life, and as I flipped through his files I saw the names of the greatest artists and actors in recent history. I could not understand why my parents were now spending all their time with “regular people”: parents of our schoolmates, mechanics my father liked to get together with to repair classic cars. But over time I came to understand this as well: for my father it was a way to forget his old life.
He trusted me and trusted that I would handle his past with love and care. For my 40th birthday he gave me the entire archive as a gift.
Today we enjoy a kind of symbiotic existence. I filter out the outside world for him. We love each other deeply and have mutual and unconditional gratitude for each other.
The little warriors of Monte Mario. Roma, 1954 © Paolo di Paolo
The photographs you found documented an age before you, while
suggesting a father you didn’t know. What were your feelings when you went
through these photos?
I’m still discovering photos from the negatives and I still feel surprise and amazement.
I found the photo of “The Little Warriors of Monte Mario — Rome 1954” that is blown up and displayed at the entrance to the MAXXI exhibition a few months ago. So far, that’s the photograph I find most moving.
I have experienced and am still experiencing a parallel life through this discovery of a hidden world.
Personally retouching the scans of the negatives by computer is like stepping into a time machine; I feel as if I personally met these great actors and directors, and I attended aristocratic galas in Rome, and I met intellectuals and great painters… as if I experienced the private moments in their extraordinary lives.
For more than 20 years my father and I shared this secret, and now I feel almost possessive of it as it’s all being revealed to the public.
In your eyes, how is your father as a historian different from him as a photographer? If you would use five adjectives to describe him, what would they be? As a historian my father is extremely fastidious, very serious, and verging on the obsessive when it comes to research and his studies—someone who edits every aspect of a book.
As a photographer who never considered himself one, he could express his strong sense of humour, his spirit as a close observer and his enthusiastic approach to life.
In five adjectives, my father is tireless, strict, humorous, modest, and brilliant.
I’m still discovering photos from the negatives and I still feel surprise and amazement.
I found the photo of “The Little Warriors of Monte Mario — Rome 1954” that is blown up and displayed at the entrance to the MAXXI exhibition a few months ago. So far, that’s the photograph I find most moving.
I have experienced and am still experiencing a parallel life through this discovery of a hidden world.
Personally retouching the scans of the negatives by computer is like stepping into a time machine; I feel as if I personally met these great actors and directors, and I attended aristocratic galas in Rome, and I met intellectuals and great painters… as if I experienced the private moments in their extraordinary lives.
For more than 20 years my father and I shared this secret, and now I feel almost possessive of it as it’s all being revealed to the public.
In your eyes, how is your father as a historian different from him as a photographer? If you would use five adjectives to describe him, what would they be? As a historian my father is extremely fastidious, very serious, and verging on the obsessive when it comes to research and his studies—someone who edits every aspect of a book.
As a photographer who never considered himself one, he could express his strong sense of humour, his spirit as a close observer and his enthusiastic approach to life.
In five adjectives, my father is tireless, strict, humorous, modest, and brilliant.