This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
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About the PhotographerGianluca Lanciai is a documentary visual artist currently based in Los Angeles. His work is mainly focused in the concept of human resilience in themes such as climate change, migrations, human rights. In 2020 he participated in the masterclass in Visual and Storytelling of Camera Torino in collaboration with the International Center of Photography, starting a long-term project on the environmental pollution of the aqueducts of three provinces of north-eastern Italy. In 2022 he was awarded the Director Fellowship by the International Center of Photography to participate in the One Year Certificate Program Documentary Practice and Visual Journalism in New York City, graduating in 2023. During his studies he was awarded the ICP Documentary Arts Fellowship for his project called Jewels of The Hole, which shows the lives and feelings of residents of one of New York City's most neglected neighborhoods.Recently, an excerpt of Jewels of The Hole was published on Bloomberg. |
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Truth in Photography: Why did you start making this series of photographs?
Gianluca Lanciai: At the beginning, I think I was trying to find a story in New York City that related to my home country. I was interested in learning more about the system of Italian gangs in early 20th-century New York City. I remember finding an article online titled “The Real Mafia Graveyard of New York, known as The Hole.” It described a 12-block neighborhood located in the bays on the Brooklyn and Queens border, disconnected from the sewage system. It was a graveyard of victims from the Italian mob and stolen cars. I was surprised there were not many photos of the neighborhood, considering the number of storytellers in New York City always looking for this type of hot story.
I Googled the neighborhood to see the streets there, and I was shocked because it looked very apocalyptic. At first, I was fascinated by its reputation, but I never thought, “Okay, this is going to be my project.” I was intrigued, for sure, but I needed to be there in person to see if I could truly connect with the place. A few people tried to convince me that being European meant I wouldn't have an opportunity to engage with the predominantly Black and Hispanic community in the area.
I went there on a weekday afternoon, and despite the conditions, the situation seemed pretty quiet and not different from other places in Brooklyn. My interaction with the people living in the neighborhood happened very easily. I remember the first day I was there, I was talking with Richie, a longtime resident of The Hole, who was feeding his pigeons, when a truck with three men stopped in front of us. Amal, the owner of a junkyard, who knew Richie, stared at me and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I'm doing a documentary.” I replied.
I don't know why I answered like that; it was a stupid thing to say on my first time there. But I remember he answered me back, saying, “Okay, I want to make a movie. Just jump in the van.”
Initially suspicious, my first thought was to politely decline the offer. However, I soon realized that if I truly wanted to delve deeper into this story and immerse myself fully, I had to push beyond my comfort zone.
“Let’s do it… I am here for that!
Gianluca Lanciai: At the beginning, I think I was trying to find a story in New York City that related to my home country. I was interested in learning more about the system of Italian gangs in early 20th-century New York City. I remember finding an article online titled “The Real Mafia Graveyard of New York, known as The Hole.” It described a 12-block neighborhood located in the bays on the Brooklyn and Queens border, disconnected from the sewage system. It was a graveyard of victims from the Italian mob and stolen cars. I was surprised there were not many photos of the neighborhood, considering the number of storytellers in New York City always looking for this type of hot story.
I Googled the neighborhood to see the streets there, and I was shocked because it looked very apocalyptic. At first, I was fascinated by its reputation, but I never thought, “Okay, this is going to be my project.” I was intrigued, for sure, but I needed to be there in person to see if I could truly connect with the place. A few people tried to convince me that being European meant I wouldn't have an opportunity to engage with the predominantly Black and Hispanic community in the area.
I went there on a weekday afternoon, and despite the conditions, the situation seemed pretty quiet and not different from other places in Brooklyn. My interaction with the people living in the neighborhood happened very easily. I remember the first day I was there, I was talking with Richie, a longtime resident of The Hole, who was feeding his pigeons, when a truck with three men stopped in front of us. Amal, the owner of a junkyard, who knew Richie, stared at me and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I'm doing a documentary.” I replied.
I don't know why I answered like that; it was a stupid thing to say on my first time there. But I remember he answered me back, saying, “Okay, I want to make a movie. Just jump in the van.”
Initially suspicious, my first thought was to politely decline the offer. However, I soon realized that if I truly wanted to delve deeper into this story and immerse myself fully, I had to push beyond my comfort zone.
“Let’s do it… I am here for that!
Inside, the yard was filled with piles of scrap metal. The sound of the gate closing behind me and scraping on the gravel gave me goosebumps. I thought, “I have no idea what I am doing here and why these people, without knowing me, are taking me to their spot.”
They started stacking wood and boxes on an old metal bin and lighting it, because it was about the end of October, and it was quite cold during the night. The comfort of the bonfire paired with some drinks provided a sense of relaxation and encouraged conversation. Holding my camera bag, I asked Amal if I could take some pictures. He replied, “Yes, of course, do whatever you want.”
The way Amal respected me and gave me the space I needed without intruding was really impressive. I will never forget that moment. As soon as I started photographing, I entered my state of alienation from time and circumstance. I was a fly buzzing among them as they had fun dancing to the rap music pumping loudly from the van.
While I was photographing them, I felt that this wasn't only their workplace; it was their sanctuary, and they exuded pride in it.
From then, we got closer, sharing dreams and stories of our past. I started meeting them at the junkyard almost once a week, and soon they introduced me to Flex, a middle-aged man who appeared younger than his years. He had been living in his trailer in front of the junkyard for almost seven years. Almost immediately, he welcomed me into his trailer, showing me collections of his most prized possessions and opening up about his life and the reasons he moved to The Hole.
Despite his outwardly confident demeanor, I could see the ghosts of his past that haunted his eyes as he unraveled his story to me. Every time we met, he always presented himself as his best version. Trendy Nike shoes, gleaming golden chains, and radiant skin. I spent most of my time in The Hole with him in his trailer, engaging in lighthearted banter, but our conversations mainly revolved around his perceptions of society and government neglect; how they disregard people like him.
“Do you see the bump on my wrist?” he said. “When I was little, my grandmother inserted a snake’s tooth to protect me from evil spirits… America doesn't fascinate me anymore. It lures you in with the bait of money and success, but then my reality became the streets. I know I'm a good man, but I easily explode after all the crap I've seen. Here, no one comes to bother me; I've chosen to live like this, wanting to stay away from people.”
They started stacking wood and boxes on an old metal bin and lighting it, because it was about the end of October, and it was quite cold during the night. The comfort of the bonfire paired with some drinks provided a sense of relaxation and encouraged conversation. Holding my camera bag, I asked Amal if I could take some pictures. He replied, “Yes, of course, do whatever you want.”
The way Amal respected me and gave me the space I needed without intruding was really impressive. I will never forget that moment. As soon as I started photographing, I entered my state of alienation from time and circumstance. I was a fly buzzing among them as they had fun dancing to the rap music pumping loudly from the van.
While I was photographing them, I felt that this wasn't only their workplace; it was their sanctuary, and they exuded pride in it.
From then, we got closer, sharing dreams and stories of our past. I started meeting them at the junkyard almost once a week, and soon they introduced me to Flex, a middle-aged man who appeared younger than his years. He had been living in his trailer in front of the junkyard for almost seven years. Almost immediately, he welcomed me into his trailer, showing me collections of his most prized possessions and opening up about his life and the reasons he moved to The Hole.
Despite his outwardly confident demeanor, I could see the ghosts of his past that haunted his eyes as he unraveled his story to me. Every time we met, he always presented himself as his best version. Trendy Nike shoes, gleaming golden chains, and radiant skin. I spent most of my time in The Hole with him in his trailer, engaging in lighthearted banter, but our conversations mainly revolved around his perceptions of society and government neglect; how they disregard people like him.
“Do you see the bump on my wrist?” he said. “When I was little, my grandmother inserted a snake’s tooth to protect me from evil spirits… America doesn't fascinate me anymore. It lures you in with the bait of money and success, but then my reality became the streets. I know I'm a good man, but I easily explode after all the crap I've seen. Here, no one comes to bother me; I've chosen to live like this, wanting to stay away from people.”
TiP: Do you think about issues in truth in photography? Could you finish the sentence, truth in photography is…?
Lanciai: I think truth in photography is probably how you perceive people’s lives and how you and the people are on the same level in that scene when you are photographing them. Your mind is not, “I have to build this photograph because it's going to work,” but you're going to photograph as you lived that moment, and it's going to be the best shot because you were there without thinking too much about the scene, the composition, the technique, and everything, but you know you got it. Sometimes you're thinking that a photograph is very good because you remember what happened there, but in reality it visually doesn't match with your memory. So, when the result is combining both of these aspects, and you can feel it, smell it, and hear it, that's probably the truth of the photograph.
TiP: How do you, as a photographer, get to know the world that you're photographing, and how do you make decisions as to what's important to photograph?
Lanciai: Recently, a respected news publication chose to publish part of my story. When they requested videos to accompany it, I shared a short film I am still working on about the neighborhood and how it represents the other reality of the American dream. I appreciated the editor's honesty in explaining to me that, although the video was good, I needed something more descriptive of the neighborhood. Presenting a story to news effectively requires a more comprehensive approach, tailored specifically to the audience. However, for this story, it was crucial for me to prioritize what people decided to share with me, a perfect stranger who slowly gained their trust.
TiP: What was that relationship between you and Flex in terms of doing the work?
Lanciai: We became friends, because I spent so many days without even taking a single photograph with him listening to his stories for hours. I don’t want to say that I regret that, but every time I was like, my God, I have to bring something home, you know?
Lanciai: I think truth in photography is probably how you perceive people’s lives and how you and the people are on the same level in that scene when you are photographing them. Your mind is not, “I have to build this photograph because it's going to work,” but you're going to photograph as you lived that moment, and it's going to be the best shot because you were there without thinking too much about the scene, the composition, the technique, and everything, but you know you got it. Sometimes you're thinking that a photograph is very good because you remember what happened there, but in reality it visually doesn't match with your memory. So, when the result is combining both of these aspects, and you can feel it, smell it, and hear it, that's probably the truth of the photograph.
TiP: How do you, as a photographer, get to know the world that you're photographing, and how do you make decisions as to what's important to photograph?
Lanciai: Recently, a respected news publication chose to publish part of my story. When they requested videos to accompany it, I shared a short film I am still working on about the neighborhood and how it represents the other reality of the American dream. I appreciated the editor's honesty in explaining to me that, although the video was good, I needed something more descriptive of the neighborhood. Presenting a story to news effectively requires a more comprehensive approach, tailored specifically to the audience. However, for this story, it was crucial for me to prioritize what people decided to share with me, a perfect stranger who slowly gained their trust.
TiP: What was that relationship between you and Flex in terms of doing the work?
Lanciai: We became friends, because I spent so many days without even taking a single photograph with him listening to his stories for hours. I don’t want to say that I regret that, but every time I was like, my God, I have to bring something home, you know?
TiP: So, he was your guide, but he was also your subject?
Lanciai: Yes, initially my main focus was Flex, until the day I met a 10-year-old girl who lives just a block away from him. She was playing on the trailer of a truck parked outside her building, surrounded by Richie's pigeons. After explaining to her and her father my presence and interest in their neighborhood, I returned to Flex's camper thinking about the closeness of their living situations juxtaposed with their very different circumstances. The thought of a girl navigating life in an area so often overlooked was perhaps the other kind of connection that was missing. I was trying to imagine her dreams and perception of Flex. It seemed like the natural progression of my story.
TiP: Ethically, in terms of photographing someone who is a child, did you talk to anyone in her family?
Lanciai: Absolutely. From the first time I met her and her father, I asked for his consent to photograph her, considering she was a minor. When they welcomed me into their home, they asked me not to photograph one of her cousins who lived with them, and I respected their choice. Later on, when I decided to exhibit her portrait, I asked her father for further consent.
Lanciai: Yes, initially my main focus was Flex, until the day I met a 10-year-old girl who lives just a block away from him. She was playing on the trailer of a truck parked outside her building, surrounded by Richie's pigeons. After explaining to her and her father my presence and interest in their neighborhood, I returned to Flex's camper thinking about the closeness of their living situations juxtaposed with their very different circumstances. The thought of a girl navigating life in an area so often overlooked was perhaps the other kind of connection that was missing. I was trying to imagine her dreams and perception of Flex. It seemed like the natural progression of my story.
TiP: Ethically, in terms of photographing someone who is a child, did you talk to anyone in her family?
Lanciai: Absolutely. From the first time I met her and her father, I asked for his consent to photograph her, considering she was a minor. When they welcomed me into their home, they asked me not to photograph one of her cousins who lived with them, and I respected their choice. Later on, when I decided to exhibit her portrait, I asked her father for further consent.
TiP: In photographing these two people who were very different, what do you hope is the takeaway? What do you hope people get from your photographs? What are you trying to show?
Lanciai: I have tried to be as honest as possible without falling into clichés or urban legends. I’m not trying to change the world with my photos, but I hope that at least people will stop and think more about certain topics. There are many misconceptions around that neighborhood that I have never experienced. Was I lucky or is this the current situation of that place?
TiP: Do you feel like your primary intent is aesthetic or is there a sense of social purpose?
Lanciai: I would say it's mostly social. The choice to work in black and white was actually due to the fact that I didn't want to be distracted by focusing too much on the perfect color tone. Since I was a child, I was very good at drawings, but when it was time to color them everything seemed so chaotic that I let my father finish them. In this case, I felt that black and white did justice to the true essence of my work.
TiP: I think that when you're in situations where you see people living close to the edge of poverty and survival, there's a different sense of responsibility. You don't want to overemphasize that reality. You don't want to sensationalize it. There are all different ways of framing what you're seeing.
Lanciai: It would be easy for me to show only the dark side and struggle of this place, but to what end? To generate mercy? Despite their plight and the problems within the neighborhood, some people are deeply connected to it and do not want to be shown as miserable. In most of my images I have tried to depict people and the environment in a single scene conveying a sense of resilience instead of misery. I guess resilience is the key word I use to describe this work.
Lanciai: I have tried to be as honest as possible without falling into clichés or urban legends. I’m not trying to change the world with my photos, but I hope that at least people will stop and think more about certain topics. There are many misconceptions around that neighborhood that I have never experienced. Was I lucky or is this the current situation of that place?
TiP: Do you feel like your primary intent is aesthetic or is there a sense of social purpose?
Lanciai: I would say it's mostly social. The choice to work in black and white was actually due to the fact that I didn't want to be distracted by focusing too much on the perfect color tone. Since I was a child, I was very good at drawings, but when it was time to color them everything seemed so chaotic that I let my father finish them. In this case, I felt that black and white did justice to the true essence of my work.
TiP: I think that when you're in situations where you see people living close to the edge of poverty and survival, there's a different sense of responsibility. You don't want to overemphasize that reality. You don't want to sensationalize it. There are all different ways of framing what you're seeing.
Lanciai: It would be easy for me to show only the dark side and struggle of this place, but to what end? To generate mercy? Despite their plight and the problems within the neighborhood, some people are deeply connected to it and do not want to be shown as miserable. In most of my images I have tried to depict people and the environment in a single scene conveying a sense of resilience instead of misery. I guess resilience is the key word I use to describe this work.
TiP: How do you show resilience? How do you show it visually? What do you look for in the photograph?
Lanciai: I'm not sure, but showing resilience isn't something you can plan before taking the photographs. For this story, I tried to keep an open mind while I was there. Then, when selecting and sequencing the final images, I focused on conveying that feeling.
TiP: I totally agree. The act of making a photograph is a spontaneous response to whatever it is you're experiencing. But the way we edit our photographs forces the question, “What am I trying to say?” So what do you look for in the editing?
Lanciai: During the editing process, I typically select different groups of images with different meanings to decide which ones work best. For this story, I mainly chose photos that showed interactions between people and their environment, rather than simple portraits.
Richie helped me a lot with this connection because he was somehow trying to recreate his environment when he lived in his small home village in Puerto Rico. You can see him healing a pigeon from the flock that surrounded his house.
Lanciai: I'm not sure, but showing resilience isn't something you can plan before taking the photographs. For this story, I tried to keep an open mind while I was there. Then, when selecting and sequencing the final images, I focused on conveying that feeling.
TiP: I totally agree. The act of making a photograph is a spontaneous response to whatever it is you're experiencing. But the way we edit our photographs forces the question, “What am I trying to say?” So what do you look for in the editing?
Lanciai: During the editing process, I typically select different groups of images with different meanings to decide which ones work best. For this story, I mainly chose photos that showed interactions between people and their environment, rather than simple portraits.
Richie helped me a lot with this connection because he was somehow trying to recreate his environment when he lived in his small home village in Puerto Rico. You can see him healing a pigeon from the flock that surrounded his house.
He fed all the stray cats in the area, and in his house he showed me over 10 wooden boxes of his cremated dogs, getting emotional at the memory of each one. All the characters in this story are connected to each other in different ways. A key role in the editing was also related to my decision to shoot at night when everything gets shadier.
TiP: What's the truth of darkness?
Lanciai: It’s a good question. I believe darkness is intense in both a good and bad way; it has the allure of the unknown. I particularly enjoy night photography and the high contrast in shots because I love when objects and people emerge from the darkness.
TiP: What's the truth of darkness?
Lanciai: It’s a good question. I believe darkness is intense in both a good and bad way; it has the allure of the unknown. I particularly enjoy night photography and the high contrast in shots because I love when objects and people emerge from the darkness.
TiP: In making your photographs, do you feel the messaging is clear? Do you feel that you were intentionally making it ambiguous? What are you striving for?
Lanciai: I like it to be ambiguous. It's a documentary, yes, but also my version of what I experienced in those moments. I believe that photography, as an artistic medium, should not always be clear and immediately understandable for everyone in the same way, even when working on a documentary.
After experiencing a conflict situation in Turkey in 2016, I thought I wanted to become one of those brave photojournalists. However, after a few years in photography, I am no longer into that explicit way of working. I am returning to my primary interests, painting and drawing, and like in those cases, I am able to recreate my own visual version of reality.
Now, I'm interested in experimenting with my photography, taking a more conceptual approach in documenting stories.
Lanciai: I like it to be ambiguous. It's a documentary, yes, but also my version of what I experienced in those moments. I believe that photography, as an artistic medium, should not always be clear and immediately understandable for everyone in the same way, even when working on a documentary.
After experiencing a conflict situation in Turkey in 2016, I thought I wanted to become one of those brave photojournalists. However, after a few years in photography, I am no longer into that explicit way of working. I am returning to my primary interests, painting and drawing, and like in those cases, I am able to recreate my own visual version of reality.
Now, I'm interested in experimenting with my photography, taking a more conceptual approach in documenting stories.
TiP: The whole issue of truth in photography is one that we can never fully answer, but it's one that's got us to ask more questions. And that's the messaging for me.
Lanciai: I totally agree. I think looking at something that catches your attention and makes you question yourself is crucial for both personal and artistic development. Whether I'm working or not, I am genuinely interested in people's stories, whether they're funny or extremely dramatic. Recently, while traveling to Los Angeles with my friend from Nashville, we encountered a Chilean woman who was the maid at the Airbnb we rented for the night. While she waited for my friend to free up the room, I struck up a conversation with her. To my surprise, she opened up about being abused by her ex-partner for almost 20 years, telling me the most terrible moments while staring out the window with her gaze lost in the horizon. I remember thinking, “God, how did we get to this point in 15 minutes?” In the end I spent an hour and a half talking to her about it.
I truly believe that knowing people's stories helps me in so many different ways and and provides them with a safe space to share openly.
Lanciai: I totally agree. I think looking at something that catches your attention and makes you question yourself is crucial for both personal and artistic development. Whether I'm working or not, I am genuinely interested in people's stories, whether they're funny or extremely dramatic. Recently, while traveling to Los Angeles with my friend from Nashville, we encountered a Chilean woman who was the maid at the Airbnb we rented for the night. While she waited for my friend to free up the room, I struck up a conversation with her. To my surprise, she opened up about being abused by her ex-partner for almost 20 years, telling me the most terrible moments while staring out the window with her gaze lost in the horizon. I remember thinking, “God, how did we get to this point in 15 minutes?” In the end I spent an hour and a half talking to her about it.
I truly believe that knowing people's stories helps me in so many different ways and and provides them with a safe space to share openly.