Joan Didion writes about the virtues of keeping in touch with the people you used to be, and the value of being able to get back to those places and those moods you were once in. Like little time machines, to quiet empty streets and harsh cast shadows, and thin young thighs, and fresh tattoos, and street art and an afternoon buzz, and more beautiful things to see and touch and taste than may ever be rightfully fair. And each of these serves as link not only to where, but to who, and how it felt to be on those streets.
Because while traveling time moves in a different way. The feast of senses forces your brain to catalog it differently. It is both slow like honey and speeding past you. It is impossible to collect and to keep all of the espressos and museums and long late lunches and the even later endless sweaty nights. And this is part of the appeal. There is an art in allowing something to happen to you while simultaneously letting it go. This is a collection of snapshots, taken feverishly on the streets of Italy by Allen Henson with the good graces of time and a good eye.