“Shuttered Secrets in Treviglio”


images created with bing -- pictures and "story" by Mario Marco Farinato

Chapter 1: The Call

Yesterday, the sun was sizzling like a griddle full of bacon, and I was just minding my own business—sipping on a lukewarm coffee and squinting at my camera settings. That’s when Alberto, my producer-slash-pseudo-agent, buzzed me like a mosquito in July.

“Hey, kid,” he drawled, his Italian accent thicker than a meatball marinara. “Got a gig for ya. Treviglio. Beautiful little patch of earth near Trezzo Sull’Adda. You in?”

Now, I was expecting the usual deal: some washed-up male singer, crooning on a stage like a half-deflated balloon. But surprise, surprise! Alberto had a curveball waiting for me.

Chapter 2: The Sultry Sisters

So there I was, lugging my gear through the cobbled streets of Treviglio. And what do I see? Not one, but two dames—sisters, mind you—sauntering toward me like they owned the joint. Legs for days, eyes like smoldering embers, and curves that could make a rattlesnake forget its venom.

“We’re ready,” they purred, their voices dripping with mischief. “No inhibitions, sugar. Shoot away.”

Embracing their beauty? More like wrestling with my sanity. I was in a state of shock, like a tumbleweed caught in a dust devil. Took three cold showers and a double espresso just to regain my composure.

Chapter 3: The Biker Bar Fiasco

Now, the tricky part? Posing those models. Imagine this: the shoot was smack-dab in a biker bar—the kind of joint where leather-clad hooligans guzzled beer and roared like Harleys. I half-expected to call the cops, but these bikers were more curious than a cat in a yarn shop.

“Hey, photog!” one of ‘em hollered. "What’s the next shot? We ain’t missin’ this show!"

So there I was, dodging beer spills and cigarette smoke, trying to capture those sultry sisters against a backdrop of tattooed arms and rebel yells.

Chapter 4: The Ghost of Caravaggio

And then it hit me—like a lightning bolt straight from the heavens. My old style—the one I’d buried deep in the folds of memory—came roaring back. Back when I bought my first digital camera, an EOS Rebel by Canon. Six million pixels, a technological marvel back then.

But here’s the secret sauce: I cranked up the ISO, let the noise dance like fireflies in the dark. Post-production magic turned it into something else—a “Dark.room” vibe, like Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro. Shadows kissed the sisters’ skin, and suddenly, I wasn’t just snapping photos; I was painting with light.

Chapter 5: Breaking Chains

And you know what, amigo? In that sweaty, raucous bar, something shifted. The chain that kept me shackled to the past melted away like butter on a hot biscuit. I could finally tell my story—no fears, no apologies.

So there you have it: Alberto’s call, the sultry sisters, the biker bar, and the ghost of Caravaggio—all wrapped up in a dusty old camera and a heart that beat faster than a jukebox on a Saturday night.

And that, my friend, is how I found myself. No more hiding. No more pretending. Just me, my lens, and a world waiting to be captured.

The end.

Y’all take care now, and keep those shutters clickin’. Life’s too short for blurry memories. 📸🌟

The playlist

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