From Anthropology to the Front Lines — A Life in Images
Bio to come
HM: Antonio, what drew you into photography in the first place?
AD: It might sound a bit unconventional, but my journey into photography actually began with social anthropology. In 1991, I moved to London to study at university. At the time, I had every intention of becoming an anthropologist or an academic. That was the plan—or so I thought.
But now, looking back, I don’t think the path I took was strange at all. In fact, the connections between anthropology, filmmaking, and photography are profound. They're all different tools for the same essential purpose: storytelling. In anthropology, you write an academic paper or monograph. In film, it’s a moving image. In photography, it’s still frames. But at their core, they all involve going out into the world and trying to make sense of it through observation, presence, and storytelling.
What drew me to anthropology in the first place is what continues to anchor my work today: the importance of fieldwork. Unlike other social sciences, anthropology insists that to say anything meaningful, you must go. You can’t stay in a library reading books and theorizing. You have to pack your bags, live with the people you’re studying, be accepted (or not), and be there. That principle has stayed with me ever since.
HM: So you see photography—and filmmaking—as a kind of fieldwork?
AD: Exactly. Visual journalism, whether film or photography, operates under the same fundamental principle: presence. For me to photograph someone or something, I have to be in their line of sight. That means I must be there. I have to share their space, sometimes even their risks. If they’re in danger, I’m exposed too—albeit never equally. But more importantly, if I can see them, they can usually see me. That mutual visibility forces you to be honest. It demands sincerity, and a kind of inner clarity about why you’re there and what you’re doing.
You’re not going there to save anyone. You’re not curing or feeding them. You’re telling their story. And that can be a complex, sometimes uncomfortable role. What gives you the right? Will the story help them—or exploit them? These questions stay with me.
Especially during my time with Reuters—often covering very painful or dangerous situations—I felt the weight of that responsibility. I had to find a balance: being strong and clear inside myself, but also humble in front of the people whose lives I was entering. And that, I believe, comes across in photography. You can't fake your way through it. People sense whether you're there with integrity.
HM: That’s beautifully said. When did you actually first pick up a camera and begin to explore this in practice?
AD: It started quite by chance. While I was at university in London, my uncle—an eccentric, artistic man—called me out of the blue. He had to leave London quickly and had two objects he didn’t know what to do with. He offered them to me: an old Hitachi VHS camcorder and a telephone answering machine. This was the early '90s, so these were still novel objects.
I took both, and the camcorder sat in my room for a while. But around that time, we were being told by our anthropology professors that the discipline had become problematic—too entwined with colonial legacies. They encouraged us to find new ways to engage with the world. The BBC was close by, and documentary filmmaking seemed like a way forward.
So some of us from the course dusted off the VHS camera and started filming. Our first project was a street documentary about vendors in Covent Garden. That experience unlocked something in me. I was hooked. From there, we made short fiction films in the Docklands, and eventually, I realized that I wanted to pursue this seriously.
HM: Did you go straight into filmmaking after that?
AD: After finishing university in London, I returned to Italy and enrolled in the Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia—Italy’s national film school, near Cinecittà. I studied directing there, but the school had very rigid ideas about roles: directors weren't supposed to touch the cameras. That clashed with how I worked. I kept insisting that directors should learn to use cameras. Eventually, I got permission to take some courses.
We were very lucky—resources were generous. I shot a black-and-white documentary on stray dogs in Rome, using 16mm film. That project solidified my connection to documentary work. After film school, I landed a position as a staff cameraman with Reuters—and that’s been my only job ever since. That was 25 years ago.
HM: And with Reuters, you’ve covered some of the world’s most significant events.
AD: Yes, it’s been an incredible experience. Reuters gave me a front-row seat to history, and the responsibility that comes with it. I covered the end of the Kosovo war, went to Afghanistan after the fall of Kabul in 2001, Iraq in 2003… I was in Banda Aceh after the 2004 tsunami. So many moments of global consequence—many of them painful.
And yet, even in those moments, I try to remind myself that photography, or the story we’re telling, is never the most important thing happening. I’ll give you a recent example: we were covering Pope Francis when he was gravely ill. We spent weeks outside the hospital, waiting. But throughout, I reminded myself—the story wasn’t us, or our coverage. It was him, facing one of the most critical passages of his life. That humility matters.
HM: Would you say anthropology still shapes your work as a visual journalist?
AD: Absolutely. Anthropology gave me a compass. It taught me that to understand something, you have to be there—present, observant, vulnerable. And it taught me that people are not just subjects or “stories”—they are individuals navigating complex lives, often under immense strain. That understanding is vital if you're going to tell stories that carry truth and weight.
Ultimately, whether it's a book, a documentary, or a photograph, what matters is sincerity, presence, and the willingness to confront both the world and yourself with honesty. That’s the thread connecting everything I’ve done.
“YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR HUMANITY AT STAKE’: PHOTOGRAPHY, ANTHROPOLOGY, AND BEARING WITNESS TO HISTORY.
HM: You mentioned Banda Aceh, in the wake of the 2004 tsunami. Would you say that was your toughest assignment?
AD: Yes—without question. I arrived in Banda Aceh in early 2005, shortly after the tsunami, and I’d never seen such scale of devastation and death. Nothing could have prepared me. The destruction was total, and yet within it, there were moments of extraordinary human resilience. But emotionally, it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever witnessed. You can’t unsee something like that.
And then, of course, there was the beginning of the Arab Spring in Tunisia. When it started, people in the West assumed it was just another “bread revolt.” They didn’t understand what was really unfolding. But being on the ground, you could feel the magnitude. You could feel the ground shifting.
HM: You were working in teams at Reuters at the time?
AD: Yes. Reuters had a very effective way of operating in the field: usually a team made up of a cameraman, a still photographer, a writer—and crucially, a driver. And if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s this: the driver is often the real journalist.
HM: (Laughs) Why the driver?
AD: Because we often had no idea what was happening, especially in places like Afghanistan. We didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the terrain. But the drivers were local—they understood everything. They had the networks, the instinct, the judgment. They knew how to keep us safe, when to move, who to talk to. They were everything.
Some of my closest friendships in the field came through that. For example, in Afghanistan, I became very close with Damir Šagolj, the Bosnian photographer. Our drivers were cousins and liked to travel together, so Damir and I spent a lot of time on the road. We’d tell them what we wanted to see—dog fights, cultural events, anything—and they would make it happen. They were our lifelines.
HM: And this was also your introduction to some of the leading photojournalists of the time?
AD: Absolutely. I was lucky enough to work alongside incredible photographers—Yannis Behrakis, Damir, Goran Tomasevic… truly some of the best in the world. And being a cameraman, I was the anonymous foot soldier of the newsroom. It's like D-Day: we all remember Robert Capa, but nobody remembers the cameramen who were also there, risking everything. I was comfortable being invisible, until something changed in me.
HM: What changed?
AD: My son. When he was born—and especially when he started walking—I began to feel this deep desire to share what I had seen in the world. Not in a grand way, not to make a name for myself, but to pass something down. Something existential.
So I joined Instagram. I’d never used social media before, but a friend convinced me to give it a try. I began transforming frames from my video footage into stills—treating them with filters, playing with composition—and writing short reflections. It became a project I called The Surviving Frame. I wasn’t posting for likes; I was thinking about my son. About how I might one day explain the world to him.
That project caught the attention of LensCulture, and they published an article about it. From there, I realized I actually loved still photography—perhaps even more than video. So I began shooting stills seriously, alongside my work.
HM: I want to go back to something you mentioned earlier—about how anthropology was criticized as “colonial.” Today, we hear that term constantly. Do you think it’s become too easy a label?
AD: Yes, I do. Look, every European country had a colonial past, and it’s absolutely essential to understand that history. But blaming everything on colonialism has become a kind of lazy reflex. I once had a fascinating discussion with an African diplomat who said, “Yes, we fought for independence—and we got it. But what we do with it is our responsibility.” That really stuck with me.
What I took from anthropology wasn’t some colonial impulse to “study the other”—it was the opposite. It was a sincere curiosity about other ways of being human. And it forced me, early on, to confront questions of guilt, power, and difference. But I never felt guilty about being curious. What mattered was being respectful—and being honest about my otherness. I’ve always liked difference. I think it’s meaningful.
There’s a powerful line from Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad that says: “You must be at least as much of a man as they are to travel here.” He’s talking about the limits of moral abstractions in the face of real human experience. That line never left me. In photography, as in anthropology, you have to put your own humanity on the line if you hope to capture someone else’s.
HM: And what about the ethics of journalism—of photographing people in pain, in war? Do you ever feel that tension?
AD: All the time. I admire my colleagues who believe they are photographing to help, to expose injustice. That’s noble. But I’ve always struggled with the idea that my pictures will necessarily “help” anyone. I don’t control what happens to my images once they leave my hands. They can be used to inspire or manipulate. That’s the truth.
So my motivation has never been to judge, rescue, or condemn. It’s more existential. Like anthropology, I believe human lives—no matter how different—have meaning. And my goal is simply to try to celebrate that meaning. To witness it. To make it visible. Not to save someone, not to accuse anyone, but to say: this life matters. That’s all.
HM: You’ve had a 25-year career with Reuters. What stands out to you the most? Any particular moment or story that feels like the highlight?
AD: That’s a tough one. Because in my role, I didn’t choose my stories—history did. I was sent where the news was, especially in the Middle East. I might have been drawn to South America, but I spent most of my time in Israel, Gaza, Lebanon, Syria. That’s where events unfolded.
If I had to pick one, it might be covering Israel and Gaza. That region is so small geographically, and yet so dense with history and meaning. You could wake up in Tel Aviv, spend time with Israeli friends, and by evening be filming from the Lebanese side of the border, feeling the same fear that others feel crossing into unfamiliar terrain. It forces you to see the story from every angle. The anger, the suffering, the humanity—it’s all there. It’s personal and universal at once.
HM: Do you have a story that stays with you—not from war, but from the randomness of journalistic life?
AD: Yes—the Costa Concordia. Remember the cruise liner that crashed off the coast of Giglio Island in 2012? At first, it wasn’t clear how serious it was. They said a few people were missing. I got there early, before the world really understood what had happened. We watched the survivors disembark from ferries—waiters in uniforms, stunned passengers. It was surreal.
Then someone asked if we wanted a ride back to the island on an empty ferry. At first, we hesitated. “Do we really need to see the wreck?” we asked ourselves. But we went. And as we approached the island, we saw it—this massive, white shape leaning against the shore. We were among the first to see it. We didn’t know we’d spend two years covering the aftermath.
We had this new Israeli-made tool, the LiveU pack—a backpack that allowed us to broadcast live via SIM cards, without a satellite truck. It was just being introduced, and we used it to stream the first live images of the wreck. The world saw it breaking news, live. It was unforgettable.
HM: Did you ever go inside the ship?
AD: No, never. We circled it many times, filmed from different angles—but we never actually went on board. No, no, not once.
HM: But there was a media push, wasn't there?
AD: Yes. About three weeks later, Live View wanted to do a promotional segment and interviewed me. I was very candid—I said exactly how I felt: that I hated live transmissions. As a cameraman, live broadcasting has always felt wrong to me. It flattens complexity. It removes context. It demands speed, not understanding.
I sent that interview to my boss for approval—and she cut it completely differently. When the final edit aired, I sounded like a huge fan of live coverage. I was furious when I got back. But she just looked at me and said, “I saved your job.”
HM: That tension—between honesty and editorial survival—seems central to your experience.
AD: Absolutely. And that connects to something deeper. I never thought I’d stay in journalism this long. I don't actually love journalism, not the way it works today. Over the years, I’ve seen it deteriorate—particularly in how speed has replaced reflection. Many of the people shaping the stories now never even leave their offices. There's a detachment, a kind of remote journalism, and it's deeply troubling.
HM: It’s a familiar complaint—the compression of time, the impossibility of pause.
AD: Exactly. Time has been sliced down so ruthlessly that filming itself is often seen as a waste. You’re expected to start transmitting before you’ve even landed. You're racing to keep up before you even understand the landscape you're entering. And that’s dangerous—because journalism only has value if the reporter has made the effort to understand the story. To take the time. To earn the trust. To choose the right images, not just the fast ones.
HM: Yet we live in the age of instant everything.
AD: Yes, and that makes it hard to push back. Today, if you don’t send the image, someone with a phone will. Amateurs are everywhere, and often they’re faster. Forty years ago, a photographer had to shoot, develop the film, send it out—it took time. Now someone just pulls a phone from their pocket, presses a button, and it’s out in the world in seconds. Newsrooms have no option but to follow that pace.
HM: So you’re sympathetic to the editors, too?
AD: I am. I understand that my publisher doesn’t really have a choice anymore. Editors are pressured to show first, think later. That’s the nature of breaking news. Then maybe a day later, you have a deeper piece that adds context. But that first wave—it's about impact, not analysis. And I understand that. I just worry about what it’s doing to the craft.
HM: So is there any hope?
AD: What I hope—what I cling to—is the idea that reputation will matter more and more. That some enlightened editors or publishers will realize that slowness, in some contexts, is a virtue. That readers will start to value trust, nuance, originality. Maybe people will begin to question whether they really need to be constantly, immediately informed, or whether they’d be better served by thoughtful, weekly insights.
I imagine a model, a bit like what happens in fashion. Designers like Armani have the mass-market products that fund their businesses, but then they have their haute couture—creative, conceptual, not designed for mass sale, but to set the tone. Journalism could do the same. Offer something more qualitative and intentional—not necessarily commercial, but essential.
HM: Like a flagship product for credibility?
AD: Exactly. But I know that’s wishful thinking. Reality is what it is. People want to see the crisis unfold in real time. It’s emotional, gripping, and addictive. And let’s face it—good news doesn’t sell newspapers. Never did. Even in the 19th century, the birth of the industrial press was built on the appetite for crime, murder, scandal. That hasn’t changed. We’re still drawn to it, whether in the news or in crime dramas on TV.
HM: And yet, we still watch.
AD: We do. I do, too. It’s part of who we are. But I still believe there’s a place for something else—for images and stories that resist the noise, that step away from the feed and offer something lasting. That’s why I moved toward still photography. It allows for silence. For waiting. For seeing, not just reacting.
WHY PHOTOGRAPHY STILL MATTERS - A FEW WORDS TO THE NEXT GENERATION
HM: So, Antonio—what would you say to a young person who comes to you today and asks: “Should I become a photographer? What should I do?” What’s your advice for someone standing at the edge of this path?
AD: You know, I would say—without hesitation—that photography is one of the most beautiful professions in the world. But even calling it a “profession” feels too narrow. It’s more than that. For me, photography has always been a kind of key—a reason, an excuse, really—to go out into the world and connect with it. It opens doors to people, places, and moments you would never otherwise encounter. That’s an extraordinary privilege.
So yes, I would definitely tell them to go for it. Absolutely. Try. Don’t let fear or the idea of comparison stop you. Don’t obsess over timelines—this is not about age. Everyone, regardless of their age or background, will face the same fundamental challenge: how to make a living. But that challenge exists in any field. What matters more is whether your work gives you meaning.
And today, I think this calling is more important than ever. Young people, like my son’s generation, are growing up in a world saturated with images—most of them virtual, filtered, curated, disconnected from reality. So photography, especially documentary or journalistic photography, becomes a kind of antidote. It’s a way to stay grounded. It insists that you go there, that you see for yourself, that you stand face-to-face with the world. And for me, that’s priceless.
HM: So it’s not just about pictures—it’s about presence?
AD: Exactly. It’s about proximity. It’s about being there. And if I look back at my own path—before I fell in love with photography, I fell in love with what it allowed me to do. I was always curious about the world. Humanity fascinated me. I wanted to be in the field, in the dust and noise of it. I wanted a life that was adventurous, yes—but also meaningful, also real.
I never got much from fantasy or fiction. I never dreamed of constructing imaginary worlds. What thrilled me—what still thrills me—is to take my inner world and throw it against the unpredictable, unfiltered texture of reality. That moment of contact, of friction between yourself and the world—that’s where photography lives for me. That’s where the truth comes in.
And I wanted that truth to remain unscripted. I didn’t want control in the traditional sense—I wanted surprise. I wanted the light to change. I wanted the face in front of me to turn or look away. The only control I wanted was through the lens, in that instant. That was enough.
HM: So, if a young photographer understands that—and still wants to go ahead?
AD: Then they must. If they’ve found that spark, that sense that this is their way of relating to the world—then yes, go for it. Because life, inevitably, will throw difficult things your way. You’ll encounter disappointment. You’ll meet people who make things harder. You’ll have to do jobs that are far from what you love. That’s just how it goes.
But if you stay close to the essence of your work—if you cherish the craft, and keep your passion intact—that becomes your strength. It becomes your anchor. And you’ll need that. Especially today.
So to any young woman or man asking me if they should become a photographer, I would say: Yes. Yes, go for it. Because this can be one of the most beautiful ways to live a life. Not easy. But beautiful.
HM: You once mentioned a quote from Miles Davis that really stuck with you—something about music, but you applied it to photography?
AD: Yes, it’s one of my favorite definitions of photography, even though it originally came from Miles Davis talking about music. He said something like, “Music is a higher form of theory that passes through your fingers before it passes through your brain.” And I think that applies beautifully to photography as well. It bypasses the intellect—it goes straight from the gut, through the hands, into the world.
That’s probably why I was drawn to it in the first place. Back in my university days, I didn’t enjoy overthinking. My mind could get too tangled, too intense. I needed a way to act and express before I got lost in theory. Photography gave me that—an instinctive way of engaging with reality.
For me, photography has always been more than a profession. Yes, it’s how I’ve earned a living. But it’s also been a form of survival, of self-expression, of clarity. And if I were to offer a piece of advice to someone just starting out—a young photographer or visual storyteller—it would be this: don’t expect the journey to be linear or quick.
When people read my CV, it probably looks very neat and structured. I got my job at Reuters at 26, and I’ve stayed ever since. But the truth is, it was a long, sometimes painful path to fully accept and embrace this career. My grandfather—whom I’ve mentioned before—was a psychiatrist, an academic, a man of enormous intellect and presence. And he absolutely hated the idea of me becoming a photographer. For him, that wasn’t a ‘real’ job. He wanted me to become a university professor, like him. Something with prestige, with clear intellectual weight.
It took years for me to liberate myself from his expectations. Years to feel that my work—holding a camera—was worthy, dignified, meaningful. And even after I started at Reuters, I had to fight for my space. My first boss there was a brilliant man, but also very strong-willed. I had to negotiate my own identity within the system. I wasn’t the type of journalist obsessed with the news cycle. I respected the work, and I knew my duty to the organization, but I always knew—I was doing this for myself, first and foremost.
It took me a long time to feel at peace with that. To realize I could do this job in my own way, with integrity.
So what would I tell someone just starting out? Know your direction, but don’t expect a map. This isn’t a direct flight—it’s more like sailing. You set your course, but the wind will blow you off track again and again. You have to adjust, navigate, sometimes drift, sometimes retreat.
And don’t expect everything to click right away. I was around 50—now I’m 53—when I really accepted, in my bones, that this is who I am. This is what I’ll be for the rest of my life. A shooter. Whether it’s film or stills. I’ve stripped away all the other noise. This is my thing.
And as long as I can still lift a camera, as long as my eyes can see and my body can move, I want to keep shooting.