Giovanni Riccò
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Jun 26
- 4 min read
Giovanni Riccò is an Italian photographer living in Valencia, working with handcrafted sets and small-scale environments to explore memory, attention, and the emotional weight of simple actions. His series “How to Paper Plane” combines everyday materials and childhood objects with quiet, carefully staged scenes that reflect on play, time, and creative presence. Trained in fine art photography, Ricco brings a thoughtful, tactile approach to his work, often building each element by hand as a way to slow down and reconnect with making. His practice moves between photography, visual research, and a personal need for lightness and space.
How to Papar Plane - Photography, 2025
Q: When did you first feel the need to go back to working with your hands?
A: I felt the need to return to working with my hands after a long pause from analog photography, which I had practiced consistently until 2022. I used to find real joy in developing and scanning my films. Even though the process isn’t fully manual, it gave me a hands-on connection to the work that I truly enjoyed. I had to step away from that to focus most of my energy on building my studio project, a coworking space for photographers.
Working on these small sets helped me reconnect with that patience and excitement for creating something tangible. It was incredibly therapeutic. For the first time in a while, I was making something just for myself, not for a commission. It was genuinely fun.
Q: Why paper planes—what made them the right object to build a whole project around?
A: The idea actually came to me a few years ago. At first, it started as a bit of a joke. I thought it would be funny to have some quirky skill to show off at a dinner with friends or family.
Paper airplanes felt like something universal; almost everyone has tried making one at some point in their life.
But after the first brainstorm, I realized there was something deeper behind the idea. The act of play, especially as an adult, can be a kind of resistance—against productivity, against seriousness, against the pressure to always be “useful.” Paper planes became a way to disconnect from the everyday and reconnect with a sense of play. There’s something comforting in that, almost like returning to a childhood memory or a simpler place.
Q: Do you remember a moment while building one of the sets that surprised you or felt unexpectedly emotional?
A: The whole project became a way for me to slow down from the heavy rhythm of work I usually live in. Starting it was actually the hardest part but also the most inspiring.
It took me two years just to get the project off the ground, and then more than six months from the first test shoot to the final still life part. Once I finished building the first set, I felt incredibly inspired. It was like taking a short creative vacation. The complexity of the process made me forget all the commercial deadlines I had waiting.
The most emotional moment, though, came with the set that included my childhood collection of stones and fossils. That one felt deeply personal. I was revisiting a part of myself I hadn’t touched in years, a little explorer I had almost forgotten.
Q: What kind of memories or feelings do those childhood materials bring up for you?
A: I had a really nice childhood. I was an active, curious kid. A lot of memories came back: long afternoons by the river searching for fossils, bringing home pockets full of treasures. But what hit me most was an existential question: when was the last time I did something without knowing it was the last time?
When was I last allowed to be a kid, and why did that stop? Those questions led me to reflect more deeply on my daily life, my creative choices, and the kind of presence I want to have in the world.
Q: How do you see photography now—as documentation, or more like conversation?
A: Although I spent years documenting my surroundings and everyday life, I think now I approach photography more as a conversation. I’ve always tried to evoke a feeling through my images, but these days I’m more interested in building a concept behind each piece, no matter how light or profound that idea might be.
It’s less about capturing what’s there and more about expressing something internal, something that asks for dialogue.
Q: You describe lightness as a choice. Has that been a personal decision for you too, beyond the work?
A: Absolutely. There’s so much seriousness in the world already, and my daily routine can be pretty corporate. I run a coworking space and shoot mostly commercial and corporate work. I enjoy it, but it can be draining.
I felt the need to breathe a little outside of that world. Lightness became a way to counterbalance the physical and mental weight of that rhythm. I’m creative, but I’ll admit, I’m also a bit lazy sometimes. Maybe that’s part of it too: finding joy in simplicity, in doing something just because it feels good.
