Portici, Granatello pier. Tuesday morning, June, 6:47am. The air smells of burnt salt, diesel and rusted iron — that particular smell of quaysides exposed to the tramontana that you won't find in any photography manual. An elderly man, his hands marked by fifty years of nylon lines and gill nets, li...
By accepting you will be accessing a service provided by a third-party external to https://insightadv.it/
IT
EN 











































