Romualdo Moscioni

He carried a tripod like luggage, always arriving at Rome’s sunrise with a glass plate under his arm and a cigarette dangling. By noon he’d be diving into the Forum’s shadows to catch the broken columns before tourists trampled them. On a single plate he’d sandwich the Colosseum’s crumbling arches, a stray cat, and a boy selling matches—no retakes, no excuses. You’ll find the proof on the cracked glass of his “Untitled,” where light writes itself across 2,000 years in one breath.