Stefano Paradiso

Written By Contemporary Art Collectors

Stefano Paradiso is a photographer and director of photography born in Rome in 1969. Graduated from the R. Rossellini School of Cinematography and Photography in 1988, he works as a director of photography and camera operator in cinema and advertising, boasting numerous collaborations with well-known Italian directors, French and American; for television he has made documentaries and reportages in various countries of the world. A lover and scholar of photography in its broadest sense, he is inspired by great photographers such as Josef Koudelka, Luigi Ghirri, Japanese Nihonga pictorial art, Chinese Guóhuà, impressionism and obviously "le cinéma d’auteur".
After living for many years in France, he returns to Italy in 2017 where he combines his work in the world of cinema with his personal photographic research which focuses on the use of black and white. He developed his darkroom technique working on the creation of large negatives and contact prints on various papers including Japanese Washi. A combination of experimentation, oriental arts and modern photography.

Stefano, your practice moves with rare fluidity between cinema and photography, two languages that are at once kindred and radically different in their treatment of time. How has the discipline of framing moving images immersed in rhythm, dialogue, and sound influenced the distilled stillness of your black and white photographs, and in what ways do you feel photography allows you to transcend or even subvert the cinematic?

Thank you for this beautiful and challenging question.
I am still exploring the connections between cinema and photography, especially in terms of storytelling. Both belong to the world of images, yet their processes, tools, and objectives diverge. The languages are similar, but the act of creation is radically different. In cinema, when I work with a director, I embrace their narrative and become the interpreter of their vision, contributing my own sensitivity and experience. In photography, however, I am the sole author. I can tell my own stories in complete freedom, at my own rhythm, and through the research that inspires me.

The resonance of shadow and light, as you often articulate, is not merely a technical interplay but a metaphysical inquiry. Could you speak about the symbolic role that shadow plays in your work, not as negation of light but as a space of imagination, memory, and spiritual presence?

For me, shadow is not simply a technical element of photography.
It is a narrative space, where stories unfold away from the brightness of light. Of course, from a purely visual standpoint, shadow is inseparable from light—where there is light, there must be shadow. But I try to carry this further: through light, one can reveal what emerges from the shadow, the overlooked details in a world that moves too fast and often too superficially. To see the shadow is to go deeper. It is tied to memory, though I would not describe it strictly as spirituality.

Your admiration for Nihonga and Guóhuà, and your insistence on the tactile qualities of Washi paper, suggests an artistic ethic where medium is not subordinate to message but a living participant in meaning. How does your choice of paper, emulsion, and process shape the breath of the final image, and do you see this as a continuation of Eastern philosophy’s view of materials as spiritual conduits?

My process is the result of long research and experimentation, and I believe the magic of the darkroom is deeply woven into my work. Japanese paper gave the images the density I was looking for: undefined edges, a wide openness to imagination. The aesthetics of Nihonga and Guóhuà have been a perfect inspiration, guiding me toward the essential. A purely realistic approach did not stir the same emotions in me. With these materials, the image invites a more unconscious reading. I myself often feel moved when looking at them—the tactile quality of the Japanese paper always makes me “sense” something more.

Umberto Eco’s phrase “the precision of the mechanism led me to the imprecise” seems to echo throughout your practice as both a paradox and a methodology. How do you negotiate between exactitude, the mechanics of camera, lens, chemistry, and the unpredictability of intuition, accident, and improvisation, much like the jazz drumming you have practiced since childhood?

Umberto Eco’s phrase captures my vision perfectly. He expressed, with great concision, a concept that lies at the heart of creativity.
For me, the process almost always begins with intuition—an uncalculated impulse. From there, research and technical reflection follow, but the spark remains unpredictable. In photography, this balance between precision and improvisation is essential, while in cinema it is harder to apply with the same freedom, since the work is collective and highly structured. Still, I constantly listen to my intuitive side: it is a continuous dialogue that allows me to let go and to follow unexpected paths.
I don’t think of it as reconciling technique and intuition. Over the years, technique becomes second nature—you absorb it until it no longer requires thought, and then the task is simply to surrender and let it flow. When I encounter a new technique, or embark on an experiment, I study it carefully and find inspiration both in the errors and in the discoveries. To return to music: once you truly master the basics, you no longer think about where to place your hands—you simply play.

Your landscapes, often emptied of human figures, nonetheless bear the quiet insistence of history, traces of fragility and persistence that recall the anthropological dimension of Koudelka. What draws you to this paradox of presence in absence, and how do you see the invisible man as a protagonist in your visual narratives?

One project that illustrates this well is my work on the Etruscans. Behind ruins and objects, we know that human lives once existed. I find it moving to imagine their presence through traces, landscapes, and forms.
By contrast, in my photographs of the Argentine and Bolivian deserts, the thought is projected forward: a world that could come to exist because of human actions. Presence and absence resonate in different ways.
I often compare photography to jazz: there is a melody, a structure that allows freedom, improvisation, and the possibility to go far beyond. From creation to the final print, this is how I like to experience the image.

Returning to Italy after years in France, you have carried with you both a cosmopolitan sensibility and a deeply rooted Mediterranean heritage. How do you see this dual belonging between Roman history, with its monumental relationship to light, and French or Japanese aesthetics, with their subtler gestures, shaping your current photographic research?

Growing up in Rome means carrying within you a profound sense of history and light. To play as a child among ancient monuments leaves an indelible mark.
Later, the French cultural environment offered me something different: openness, curiosity, and the ability to question even long-held certainties. Paris, a crossroads of cinema, painting, music, and literature, has always been a fertile ground for artistic encounters. For me, those years were invaluable—a cosmopolitan education that expanded my gaze, while my Mediterranean roots kept me grounded.

In your photographs, one senses not only an interest in form but also an undercurrent of sound—the silence of a room, the rhythm of breath, or even the beat of a drum. Do you feel that your images are haunted by a musicality, and how consciously do you translate temporal rhythm into visual composition?

Music, which I have studied since childhood, is fundamental to me. When you carry rhythm inside you, it resonates in everything you do. In cinema, my sense of timing has been invaluable: moving the camera is all about rhythm, and improvisation is often necessary—something one must never fear.
In photography, rhythm emerges through form: rounded, fluid, or blurred subjects become a kind of visual score, particularly in my more abstract projects. I often listen to music before going out to photograph, to find the right state of mind. In the darkroom, music becomes essential: it changes with the subject, or simply with my mood, and always guides my process.

The history of photography has often been torn between documentary fidelity and poetic invention. Your work, especially in its blurred contours and softened edges, seems to resist mimesis and lean toward a synthesis of reality and imagination. How do you position yourself within this tension, and what do you think black and white photography still offers today as a vehicle of invention in an age dominated by hyperreal digital color?

This question touches the core of my research.
For me, black and white is the perfect synthesis between reality and imagination. It allows forms and atmospheres to shift toward abstraction while remaining tied to the world. Its poetic force is unmatched, especially in an age dominated by hyper-realistic, digital color. Working in black and white is, in some sense, an act of resistance—a way to slow down, to search inward and outward at once.
That said, I am not closed to color: I am currently working on a project on the sea where color carries its own emotional resonance, different but complementary to my exploration of black and white.I am attaching a preview of the Almost Blue project.

In both your cinematographic collaborations and your independent photographic explorations, light is never neutral but charged with narrative, almost an actor in itself. Could you reflect on how your approach to light differs when serving a director’s vision in cinema versus when pursuing your own inner vision in photography?

I do not believe there is such a thing as neutral photography. Light always carries meaning. It can be subtle, dramatic, or restrained, but it is never neutral—it serves the story being told.
In cinema, light interacts with camera movements, framing, and editing to create a cohesive narrative. It is a collective effort, with the director as the conductor. In this context, my role feels closer to that of a first violin, interpreting within a larger orchestration.
In still photography, I work alone, free to follow my own vision. It is closer to a solo performance. In both cases I rely on experience and sensitivity, but the dialogue is very different: shared in cinema, solitary in photography.

You have spoken of the resonance of the spirit as articulated by Xie He, and your images indeed seem to radiate this ineffable vibration that transcends surface. Do you see your work as part of a larger philosophical quest, to re-enchant the contemporary viewer and restore a sense of mystery in a world saturated with images, and if so, what do you believe the viewer must bring of themselves to truly encounter your photographs?

My research embraces many disciplines—philosophy, certainly, and literature, which I consider essential. But what matters most is listening to the unconscious, nurturing it through study and experience. This, more than any strict method, is what guides me.
It may bring me closer to what Xie He called the “resonance of the spirit,” though in my case it is simply a personal vibration, something ineffable that I hope the images carry.
What I ask of the viewer is openness: the willingness to pause, to embrace the silence of the image, and not to demand immediate answers. Only then can a photograph truly be encountered, and its resonance felt. My wish is that the emotions I feel can reach those who view my photographs, perhaps in different forms and interpretations.

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