Photographer in Brunico: portraits, emotions, and stories from South Tyrol
A portrait photography project in the long-term care unit of Brunico Hospital: faces, emotions, traditional clothing, and people's stories told by a professional photographer.
There are photographs that don't cost anything. "How much does a photo shoot cost?" It's a legitimate question, but behind the price of a photograph lie years of experience, training, equipment, time, and professionalism. Being a photographer is a job, and the value of a service isn't measured solely by the hours spent shooting.
And just thinking about this, a day from last year came to mind that, almost a year later, I still consider one of the most significant experiences of my professional career.
That time, I wasn't on a ski slope, I wasn't photographing an event or a wedding in the Dolomites, and I wasn't busy shooting the South Tyrol region. I was in Brunico, inside the long-term care unit of the hospital.
A job unlike any other
In my work as a photographer in the Dolomites and South Tyrol, I encounter a wide variety of situations. I photograph sports, events, companies, families, weddings, landscapes, and projects related to tourism and the local area. Each shoot has its own specific requirements and requires preparation, attention, and the ability to adapt to the situation, but there's a dynamic I've come to know well: I arrive on site, observe, find the right light, take the shot, and then return to the computer to select, edit, and deliver the images.
This time, however, I knew from the beginning that it would be different.
The project involved taking a series of photographs inside the long-term care unit at Brunico Hospital. I wouldn't have in front of my lens athletes focused before a race, newlyweds on their wedding day, or people attending an event. I would have encountered elderly people of varying degrees of age, frail individuals, some with limited mobility, and others who lived daily with illness and suffering.
Entering that department, I immediately had the feeling that my photography approach needed to change. More time and attention were needed, but above all, I needed to remember that in front of the lens wasn't just a subject to photograph. It was a person with a whole life behind them.
The faces, the hands and those eyes full of light
The first thing that struck me were the faces. Faces marked by time, by experiences, and in some cases, by illness. The wrinkles weren't simply signs of aging: they seemed to tell stories I could never fully understand. Even more striking, perhaps, were the hands, marked by work and toil, hands that told of a life spent doing, building, caring, and living.
And then there were the eyes.
When you're a portrait photographer, you quickly learn that the eyes can tell much more than what a person says. But in that situation, this feeling was even stronger. In some of the gazes, there was suffering and fragility, in others curiosity, a desire to participate and understand what was happening. And, despite everything, there was a light that remained with me.
It's hard to explain what it means to meet someone's gaze through a lens. Normally, you're looking for the right expression, the right moment, the best light. That day, however, I realized that before even creating a good portrait, I had to create a relationship, even if only for a few minutes.
You had to wait, listen, and let the person in front of the camera feel comfortable.
Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful aspects of portrait photography: forcing you to pause in front of someone long enough to see details that, in the rush of everyday life, you might otherwise miss. A face can tell a lot before someone even starts speaking.
A small set on the terrace of the department
The project wasn't just about taking portraits inside the facility. A small set was set up on the ward's terrace, and some of the patients were photographed wearing traditional South Tyrolean clothing from different eras, along with their accessories: milk jugs, cutting boards with speck, blankets and ornaments, sunflowers, and ears of wheat.
For a few moments that terrace became a small stage and those people became protagonists.
The photograph, however, was only the final step in a much more extensive process. Before the shot, there was preparation, makeup, hair, dressing, and movement. Some patients were able to move independently, while others needed guidance and assistance. Every gesture required attention and, above all, time.
Then there were the questions from those who were perfectly sentient and wanted to know what we were doing, who would see the photographs, why we were undertaking this project. There was curiosity, a few smiles, a few jokes in the Pusterese dialect, and even a few moments of silence.
I was there as a photographer, but I soon realized that the shot was just the final step in something much bigger. Before photography, there were people.
Clothes and their connection to memory
The traditional costumes added a special meaning to the images. They weren't simply props chosen to enhance a portrait, but rather spoke of a culture and a region that, for many of those patients, represented something they had experienced firsthand.
Looking at them through the lens, I had the feeling that those clothes connected two different moments: the past they represented and the present of those people. A dress, a hat, or a detail could bring back memories of a part of one's life.
For some of them, donning those clothes again seemed to become something more than just photographic preparation. It was almost like a small step back in time.
And this is what struck me: photography wasn't just about creating an image. It was about connecting a person with their own memory, their own territory, and a part of their own history.
The operators: the invisible part of the project
When I think back on that day, however, I don't just remember the patients. I also remember with great emotion the workers who made the project possible.
I saw them take care of everything: from makeup to hair, from dressing to transportation, accompanying people to the terrace and helping them whenever needed. For some patients, even a simple transfer required time and attention, and they were there, constantly present.
These are gestures that are probably part of the daily routine of those who work in a facility like this. For me, who observed them from a different perspective, they were one of the most significant aspects of the day.
What struck me most was the light in their eyes. I didn't just see people doing their job: I saw people engaged, attentive, and genuinely happy to be able to give their patients that moment. There was satisfaction in seeing those people participate, wearing those clothes, smiling, and feeling like they were the stars of the show.
At that moment, I realized that some professions, when lived with this intensity, cease to be just professions. They become a form of vocation, of care and presence towards others.
Everything that didn't end up in the photographs
As a photographer, you're used to searching for the right moment. The light, the composition, the expression, the gesture. That day, however, I also began to value everything that happened between one shot and the next.
The questions of those who were perfectly aware of what was happening, the curiosity towards the camera, the smiles and even the moments of silence have remained imprinted in my memory perhaps more than some photographs.
It's something I often think about in the rest of my work. A photograph can be technically perfect, have beautiful lighting and a balanced composition, but what really makes it important is often what's behind it.
That day I realized once again that not everything that matters necessarily becomes an image. Sometimes it's a word, sometimes a look, sometimes simply the way someone looks at you after you've put the camera down.
A job without pay
That assignment didn't include any compensation. And I want to say this precisely because, as I wrote at the beginning, photography is my job. A photo shoot has value, and behind that value lies professionalism, experience, equipment, training, time, and all those costs that often go unnoticed by those who only look at the final result.
Therefore, I don't think a photographer's work should be considered free. On the contrary, I believe that those who do this job know the value of their time and how much it costs to reach a certain level of experience and professionalism.
But I also believe that, precisely because it is a profession, a photographer can consciously choose to put what he knows how to do at the service of something he feels is important.
That was one of those occasions.
I didn't experience it as a day of free labor, but as a chance to give back through my work. The camera, for once, wasn't just a professional tool: it was the medium through which I could tell the story of people who deserved to be seen and remembered.
The photographs published on Regenbogen
The pictures taken during the project were later published in the magazine Regenbogen , in the October 2025 issue, linked to the Wohn- und Pflegeheime Mittleres Pustertal.
The publication was naturally a professional satisfaction, but when I think back to that experience today, the magazine is not the first thing that comes to mind.
I remember the ward terrace, the traditional South Tyrolean clothes, the work-worn hands, the eyes, the questions, the smiles, and above all, the staff who were constantly moving to help everyone experience that moment.
I remember the feeling of entering that place as a photographer in Brunico and coming out with something that had nothing to do with a photograph.
The real profit
Almost a year has passed since that day, but I still consider that experience one of the most significant moments in my professional career.
Perhaps because it reminded me that the value of photography isn't always what we can attribute to it through a quote, an invoice, or a publication. Work must be paid for, professionalism has a cost, and professional photography shouldn't be confused with a hobby. But there are times when the value of what we do takes a different path.
That experience left me with encounters, perspectives, stories, and emotions. It reminded me why I continue to do this work and why, beyond technique and professionalism, photography remains, for me, above all a way to connect with people and tell something about them.
The real gain, that time, didn't end up in my bank account. It stayed inside me. And perhaps that's why, almost a year later, I still remember those people so well.
There are photographs that are taken for a living. And then there are photographs that, even when they aren't paid, repay the photographer in another way: by leaving something in their heart.
