Water is like fire: it’s a resource and a threat.
A spectacle that contains a promise of tragedy, despite the daily happy ending.
A conic island emerging from the Tyrrhenian waters, Stromboli’s surface is mostly occupied by a volcano in constant activity. Not a lot of space is left for human life around the mountain.
Only two small villages crawl on its slopes, exposed to the winds, and the seasons’ caprice.
Tiptoeing on the you feel a strange, reckless chemistry, “a mixture of volcanic air and sea salt”.
An ancient society of fishermen and farmers, with few last names and rivalries whose reasons no one remembers anymore, blends with a community of foreigners, artists, renegades from all over, who settled on the island long ago attracted by the volcano, to turn a page in their lives.
I grew to love the contradictions of that place, its magnetism that doesn’t give you a break. I understood why the locals call the volcano “Iddu”, Sicilian for “He”, like a god who can’t be named and a friend you live with every day.