This photobook, delving into the world of Guido Guidi, has genuinely captivated me. From the very first page, it feels like an invitation into a way of seeing that resonates deeply with my own appreciation for the overlooked and the truly present. It is not a book to be rushed through, but one to be savoured, allowing Guidi’s unique perspective to unfold and reveal itself.

One of the most striking things that comes through is Guidi’s pragmatic and wonderfully anti-planning approach to photography. He talks about throwing a stone into the void, which I find to be a perfect metaphor for stepping out and simply engaging with what is there, without a rigid agenda. It is about letting the moment guide the lens, rather than forcing a preconceived idea onto the scene. This mirrors my own feelings about photography – that the most compelling images often appear from a genuine openness to the world around us. His idea that the “only possible plan is to throw yourself forward, working on the occasion, as Goethe suggested,” speaks volumes to this spontaneous and authentic method. It is a refreshing departure from the notion that every artistic endeavour must begin with a meticulously crafted blueprint.

Guidi’s concept of the “thinking eye” is another element that truly gripped me. He suggests that conscious thought can sometimes get in the way of pure observation, and that the eye shows signs on a purely visual plane, automatically. This is something I have felt intuitively when looking at photographs, there is an immediate, almost unconscious, recognition before the analytical mind kicks in. The camera, for Guidi, is not merely a recording device but has its “own particular intelligence,” aiding the photographer in discovery. The dedication he showed to the Brion Tomb project, pursuing a single shadow for ten years, exemplifies this profound commitment to sustained, intuitive seeing. It proves a patience and a belief in the unfolding revelation that I admire immensely. This is not about capturing a scene, it is about engaging with it until its hidden layers are revealed.

His belief in photography as an autonomous language is a powerful idea. When he says that “the content is the language,” it implies that the photograph does not simply stand for something external, but rather is something in itself, speaking through its own inherent visual grammar. This is why his work feels so rich, it is not dependent on external narratives or heavy handed messages. It is the visual conversation within the frame that holds the power. I find this approach incredibly liberating, and it elevates photography from a descriptive tool to a profound mode of expression.

I was fascinated to read about his influences, especially his connections to Paul Klee and Kandinsky. It is clear that his background in painting and architecture deeply informs his photographic vision. You can see how his understanding of form, line, and composition, honed through those disciplines, translates into the structure of his images. His engagement with theories of “pure visibility” also makes perfect sense, given his focus on the inherent visual qualities of a scene. The way he grapples with these artistic and theoretical lineages, yet always makes them his own, is a testament to his originality.

His acknowledgement of Walker Evans and Stephen Shore is very clear, yet the book deftly illustrates how Guidi carves out his own distinct space. While he started with a frontal perspective, influenced by Evans, the shift to a slightly oblique angle, creating those wonderful diagonal shadows, truly clicked with me. It is not a complete break from his influences, but an evolution that brings a unique dimension to his work. These shadows, hinting at a “perspective drawing,” show a subtle interplay between the optical reality of the camera and a deeper, almost ordered, understanding of the world. It is this balance between the observed and the constructed that makes his images so compelling. And I certainly agree with the sentiment that he has a “loving vigilance” rather than a cold detachment, even when depicting ordinary, unmonumental subjects. He finds beauty and significance in the mundane, which is a perspective I very much share.

The concept of his archive as a living, active entity truly resonated. It is not a dusty vault of finished works, but a dynamic space where images continue to be re-evaluated, re-sequenced, and given new life. The idea that “bad copies today” might be “good tomorrow” speaks to a beautiful humility and an ongoing dialogue with his own output. His serialisations, both synchronic and diachronic, highlight this continuous exploration and discovery. The notes he adds to his prints, becoming an “integral part of the document,” further underscore this active process of meaning making within the archive itself. It is a testament to the idea that the photographic process extends far beyond the click of the shutter.

Now, turning to some of the images that particularly caught my eye, they perfectly illustrate these ideas.

The sequence of Giorgio Villa climbing the stairs of his studio, Cesena, 1969, spread across pages 16 and 17, is brilliant. You see him appearing in stages, almost emerging from the pure white void of the stairwell. The way the walls are stark white, creating a box like space, makes it feel like a study in form and movement. His face in that third shot, where he is framed from the waist up, carries a wonderfully natural, almost questioning expression, as if he is not quite sure what the final outcome of these images will be. The subtle sepia tone of the larger image on the left, compared to the black and white sequence, adds another layer of subtle beauty. It is a masterful early exploration of sequence and presence.

Then there is the self-portrait, #A6-2 Ronta, 1968. There is something incredibly intimate about this shot. He is holding the camera button, standing in what appears to be a hallway with white walls, and the light, perhaps from a window, creates these lovely shades and tones. It is not a grand, performative self-portrait, but a quiet, observational one. It feels like a moment of true presence, where the photographer is part of the scene he is capturing.

The image on page 92, #B4-16C Venezia, 1974 / #C01-14 San Trovaso, 1980, with the profile shot into a mirror, is another favourite. The flash blocking out the face in the reflection is a powerful, almost symbolic, gesture. It removes the individual ego and puts the focus squarely on the act of seeing and the nature of the mirror as a reflective surface. The jacket hanging beside him and the precise framing of the black and white square mirror within the composition are perfect examples of Guidi’s keen eye for geometric arrangement and subtle detail.

My liking for “random buildings in the middle of nowhere” makes #636 Matellica, 1985 on page 160 an absolute stand out. This red cabin, with its corrugated metal roof and those dark paint streaks running down it, sitting in a field of vibrant green grass, is everything I love about finding beauty in the unassuming. The field stretching off to the right, and the line of trees to the left, frame it perfectly. It is a testament to Guidi’s ability to elevate something so ordinary into a subject of quiet contemplation and visual interest. It is not monumental, but it is deeply evocative.

Finally, the image #12531 Ayaş, 1998 on page 258, a bricked wall with a low opening, is wonderfully mysterious. The stone, once white, now shows these incredible orange and grey hues from dust and rust. The low opening, whether a doorway or an exit, invites endless speculation. It embodies that sense of seeking out traces of time and the unspoken stories embedded within the landscape. It is a simple image, yet it holds so much depth and invites the viewer to look closer and wonder.

This photobook is a remarkable journey into the mind and work of Guido Guidi. It is a celebration of the unplanned, the observed, and the enduring power of the photographic image to reveal hidden truths in the world around us. For anyone who appreciates the quiet beauty of the everyday and the profound intelligence of an image, this book is an absolute must see.

Regards

Alex