This is my land, a perpetual dichotomy.

Hope and resignation: a dualism that has always stirred my subtle unease. A feeling that’s pushed many to leave, only to return—living it with resignation or fighting to change it. To hate it, then love it.

The Val di Cornia, located in the province of Livorno, and the surrounding areas have undergone a major industrial decline over the last decades. Piombino, historically known for its steel industry—with factories and companies leading iron and steel production for over a century—has faced a deep crisis since 2014, marked by the shutdown of the blast furnace and the loss of many jobs.

This complex situation is part of a broader context: According to the CGIL report, Italy is experiencing a strong industrial crisis in 2024. It reflects the growing fragility of manufacturing and has serious consequences for the urban outskirts.

This is a place where architecture tells stories of hope and disillusion. Homes, factories, streets, and squares bear the marks of people trying to shape the landscape, leaving behind traces of effort, nostalgia, and a desire for redemption.

It’s an area rich in natural parks that, while valuable, seem more like failed attempts than real conservation strategies. Even the many historical and archaeological sites feel sidelined, silent witnesses of a heritage struggling to find its place in the present.

Next to the now-silent factories, workers’ houses still show signs of a life once ruled by machines and the daily grind. They look frozen in time, fragile monuments to the instability of those who live there. Roads stretch through homes and woods, telling the same story over and over.

Beyond the town, the still sea of countryside unfolds toward the hills, where dense oak forests hide traces of the industrial past. Maritime pines, bent by the wind, speak of storms and relentless sun, casting scattered shadows over sandy soil suspended between land and water.

Time doesn’t flow here—it stagnates. The outskirts resist decay but struggle to imagine a different future, clinging to their roots while the rest of the world rushes on.

The Dicotomia project comes from the need to explore a territory suspended between what it was and what it could become, where people live with their restlessness, trying to make sense of a place that always feels on the verge of change—but never really changes.

A distant memory, full of nostalgia and regret, for those who left. A strange, surreal blend of landscapes for those who stayed.

This is my attempt to capture the essence of that duality through images.