dima
  • Survivors

    This is, in part, an autobiographical story. Not because I am originally from Malta, but if you have been knowing me for a while, you know how I can’t stand the heat, and for this reason every summer I find an excuse to run away northbound until the end of August. So I decided to shoot in Valletta, the capital of the Maltese archipelago, a small story about those, like me, who won’t make it under the sun. Through these images I wanted to show how tiring it is to be a tourist, and the excruciating tenaciousness that pushes hordes of people from all over the world to drag themselves up and down the staircases of the city polished by the millions of feet that throughout the years have walked in the dazzling reflection of that white stone between May and October. Either wrinkly and purple or young and tanned, The Tourists are an endemic presence in Valletta. Armed with visors and wearing light colours, they march straight even during siesta time, following the marching band, that, starting from the entrance to the city re-designed by Renzo Piano, reaches the square where the changing of the guard takes place. Here sentinels in uniforms show such emphasized moves that remind of a famous Lady Gaga video. Malta is a place of millenary history, dominated by Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, Spanish and Brits, that managed to get the best out of each colonization. Dynamic, cosmopolitan and mixed-race by its own nature, Valletta made me, once again, ponder on the importance of cultural contamination.