Ayzoh! started with a simple yet bold mission. Maybe a bit naive at first, but one we’ve never abandoned. After dozens of projects across the world, it’s easy to get caught up in the momentum, but we don’t want to forget our roots. We are still the same.
We still believe in the power of storytelling, in standing alongside those who fight for dignity, and in using our skills to serve something greater than ourselves. This is where it all began. And this is why we’re still here.
Looking Back to Move Forward
I know this might sound like a cliché (and it probably is!), but since childhood, I’ve wanted to be a nomadic storyteller on a mission. One day, in fourth grade, my teacher — his name was Anselmo Sacco — gave us a writing assignment: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I didn’t write a single word. Instead, I drew a Land Rover Defender (well, at least that was the idea) with a man standing on the roof, a tripod, and a camera. That man was me. Maybe it was Africa. My teacher didn’t appreciate it. He gave me a 2 (in Italy, that’s a terrible grade).
But to me, everything was already clear. I wanted to travel the world, using symbols, images, and words to capture what I saw and felt: the faces of people, the warmth of their smiles, small acts of kindness, the vastness of nature, from its tiniest creatures to its endless landscapes, and the explosion of colors in between.
I wanted to document places beyond imagination: wild, exotic, ordinary, strange, unique, surreal, wide open, and tightly closed. I wanted to understand the needs they carried and the treasures they held.
A Journey in Search of Meaning
I was born in Genoa, in the heart of its historic center. Every Genoese has an unbreakable bond with the sea, and I was no exception. To make a living, I started working as a sailor, first as a deckhand and later as a professional skipper. I loved that life, constantly moving, traveling from one port to another.
But I didn’t just want to sail. I wanted to tell the stories of what I saw and experienced. In 1986, an opportunity came. While working on a large sailing boat, I began illustrating maritime scenes, specializing in ship portraits.
It was rewarding work, leading me to collaborations with prestigious naval museums, magazines, maritime companies, and even two royal families (Great Britain and Norway). My projects took me across Italy, France, Norway, the U.S., and the U.K.
I was good — really good — at drawing ships. But I was terrible at drawing people. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t capture the essence of a human figure. In the end, I had to admit it: I was too technical. I would never be a complete illustrator. I would never come close to my idol, Hugo Pratt.
Then, one day, I came across these words: “This planet doesn’t need more successful people. What it desperately craves are peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of all kinds.”
That was it. The moment everything changed. My soul resonated with the idea of telling real-life stories through my lens and a camera.
I had learned photography early, and I was always drawn to big projects. At 13, I shot my first “reportage,” sneaking away from home — without documents, without telling my parents — to cover the Nice Carnival in France. I never believed in borders, flags, or nationalism.
At 15, I spent two weeks living with a group of street kids on a beach in Molfetta, Puglia, sleeping alongside them and documenting their lives. At 18, I spent days in the mountains of Aspromonte, Calabria, capturing the hidden existence of a group of fugitives.
I was ready. So, in 1992, I left my illustration studio and became a professional photographer.
Photography, Success, and Emptiness
Over the years, I worked across journalism, corporate, editorial, and advertising photography. My images appeared in newspapers, films, television, sports, and even high fashion. Photography gave me recognition, financial security, the chance to raise my two kids as a single father, and moments of applause. But something was missing.
The industry was cynical, built on illusion. I felt disconnected from my purpose. I wanted to tell stories of human nature, but I was too caught up in the commercial side of photography to see what truly mattered. Then came 2008, and everything changed again.
I was in Acupé, a Quilombo in Bahia, Brazil, working on a documentary. There, a small community — descendants of slaves from Benin — was using Capoeira to save their youth from drug cartels. They had incredible ideas, boundless energy, and deep commitment, but almost no resources.
How could they compete with traffickers offering a far more seductive dream? Drug lords had money, music, radio stations, newspapers—all pushing the illusion of a glamorous life. That was the moment I made my decision.
I walked away from a career that no longer fulfilled me. I chose to use my 20+ years of experience in international publishing for something that mattered: to support small, marginalized communities through storytelling and publishing.
Financially, it was a huge risk. But I took it. I stripped my life down to the essentials.
The Birth of Ayzoh!
That was how Ayzoh! was born: a team of photographers, filmmakers, designers, and researchers who put their skills to work for something greater than personal success.
I reclaimed the word “storytelling.” I know… in recent years, storytelling — like resilience, community, and inclusion — has been hijacked by marketing, stripped of meaning. But for me, it remains what it has always been: an ancient art that connects people, transcends cultures, and gives life to shared experiences.
I haven’t had a home in years. Everything I own fits into a blue American Tourister suitcase and a Lowepro camera backpack. I move from project to project, following the work that needs to be done. Despite the difficulties, I’ve never regretted my choice.
Why Ayzoh!
Through our work, we aim to capture hope, resistance, and compassion: the essence of what makes us human. Why?
As a photographer, I’ve seen darkness. I’ve walked through places where dignity is trampled, where freedom is stolen, where people fight every day just to survive.
But I’ve also seen resilience. I’ve seen kindness, love, and the fierce will to keep going. That’s why we tell these stories.
To honor those who resist. To remind the world of its shared humanity.To ensure that the storyteller’s drum — the one that once called people to gather around the fire at sunset — never stops beating. This’s Ayzoh!
