Sometimes, a book, a film, or an event can change our life dramatically. But let’s be real: usually that change comes from an accumulation of factors. That’s precisely what happened to Cecilia Pignocchi after reading Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals. After working for almost a decade as an art director in Amsterdam, she took the radical decision to quit her job and embark on a road trip across Europe chasing the sun.
“I had been dreaming of a big, long journey, a pause from existence, as I call it, since I was younger. But then, when I started to work […], I ended up putting this dream aside,” Cecilia confesses in this interview. But at thirty-three, there was a change in her mindset: she wanted to learn more about herself. So she took the reins of her life again, broke free from the mould that has us working from sunrise to sunset, and took a sabbatical where she mostly cycled back to Italy. “Everything became meaningful and not taken for granted because it was our legs powering through the landscape. The best thing was to reclaim the morning, my favourite part of the day,” she recalls.
The result of that change is Tempo Bello, a sun-soaked, vibrant series of photos where Pignocchi portrays her idealised version of summer (her favourite moment of the year): nude bodies, the bright blue sea, and a ‘dolce far niente’ spirit. They’re lighthearted, evocative, and playful, and they’re proof that there are very few places like the Mediterranean to enjoy the summer in all its grace. Inspired by those images, we sit down with Cecilia to discuss life-changing decisions, womanhood, and going back to one’s roots.
Ciao Cecilia, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. How’s your summer so far? Have you been on holidays already, or planning a big trip in the coming weeks?
Ciao Arnau, so nice to meet you! Thank you so much for sending over your questions and being curious about my project. Summer is great, I keep saying out loud that it is my favourite season. I say it every time I’m sitting on the back of my boyfriend’s scooter, when the sun is going down and the hot air is blowing on my face.
I see the sea in the distance and we drive to go for a swim after work. Then we park the scooter and go down a steep path. After three steps, I no longer hear the sound of the city. All I hear is the sound of cicadas — the sound of summer. Among the trees, we descend, and after the first turn, I begin to see the sparkles dancing on the water. Oh, I love summer! Why is it so short? In June we were on a sailing boat for a week, sailing from Italy to Croatia. And we will go to the Alps in August to climb some rocks.
I see the sea in the distance and we drive to go for a swim after work. Then we park the scooter and go down a steep path. After three steps, I no longer hear the sound of the city. All I hear is the sound of cicadas — the sound of summer. Among the trees, we descend, and after the first turn, I begin to see the sparkles dancing on the water. Oh, I love summer! Why is it so short? In June we were on a sailing boat for a week, sailing from Italy to Croatia. And we will go to the Alps in August to climb some rocks.
After almost a decade under the grey skies of Amsterdam, you quit your job and embarked on a bike trip across Europe. What prompted you to make this decision?
The finitude of time. While I was trying to make the decision to leave my job, my friend suggested that I read a book called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. And that really prompted me to make the decision. I think I didn’t even get to the end of the book, but still it was enough getting to the first few chapters and reading some obvious, but important notions that somehow made me feel less insecure.
I had been dreaming of a big, long journey, a pause from existence, as I call it, since I was younger. But then, when I started to work as an art director in Amsterdam, I ended up putting this dream aside because I was just starting my career. But after eight years, when I was thirty-three, one day I thought that I had learned enough and I could go learn something else, experiment with my knowledge and shake things up. That book helped me put things into perspective.
I think, but I’m not totally sure yet, I will confirm when I turn forty, that every decade we might experience some internal changes. Like a call from within that shakes us. A reminder of where we are at, and where we want to go.
I had been dreaming of a big, long journey, a pause from existence, as I call it, since I was younger. But then, when I started to work as an art director in Amsterdam, I ended up putting this dream aside because I was just starting my career. But after eight years, when I was thirty-three, one day I thought that I had learned enough and I could go learn something else, experiment with my knowledge and shake things up. That book helped me put things into perspective.
I think, but I’m not totally sure yet, I will confirm when I turn forty, that every decade we might experience some internal changes. Like a call from within that shakes us. A reminder of where we are at, and where we want to go.
What’s the experience of cycling through different countries chasing the sun been like? What’s been the best and the worst?
It’s been the best thing I could possibly do! One of these things I will vividly remember for the rest of my life. Being in contact with the sun from rising to setting every single day for one hundred and fifty days gave me some serious energy. It’s almost as if the sun recharged me as if I had batteries, it switched me on and put me back in contact with myself.
It wasn’t all sparkles though. This came with a lot of physical effort and discomfort. But it was through the pain that things gained worth. Everything became meaningful and not granted because it was our legs powering through the landscape. The best thing was to reclaim the morning, my favourite part of the day. The worst was coming to terms with my physical limits. Towards the end, after 5500km, my knees were begging me to stop.
It wasn’t all sparkles though. This came with a lot of physical effort and discomfort. But it was through the pain that things gained worth. Everything became meaningful and not granted because it was our legs powering through the landscape. The best thing was to reclaim the morning, my favourite part of the day. The worst was coming to terms with my physical limits. Towards the end, after 5500km, my knees were begging me to stop.
As a fellow Mediterranean (I’m from Barcelona), I totally understand the need to see the sun shine. Even if I don’t sunbathe or enjoy the beach, I can’t cope with an entire week of grey skies and that ugly, diffuse light. How do you think seeing the sun again has changed your mood these last months/year?
I think it really had an impact. For the past eight years, I thought, or tried to convince myself, that I had gotten used to the Amsterdam weather. That yes, the sun is nice, but you can live without it and get used to gray skies. But from this journey, what I found out was that, in truth, I really did miss the sun. The sun influenced my creativity. The saturation of colours inspired me. And I realised that, even though I always loved photography, in these past eight years in Amsterdam I hadn’t taken a single picture. I was never inspired to do so. In fact, I dedicated myself to other artistic practices, such as painting in the streets, or making collages.
Photographs would only come out of me when I was somewhere else, somewhere the sun was shining. Only in those sunny places would I be inspired by the light, the colours, and the shadows. And so, it came naturally that during my sabbatical, a wave of inspiration came over me, and I guess I just rode it.
Photographs would only come out of me when I was somewhere else, somewhere the sun was shining. Only in those sunny places would I be inspired by the light, the colours, and the shadows. And so, it came naturally that during my sabbatical, a wave of inspiration came over me, and I guess I just rode it.
You’re presenting Tempo Bello, a series of sun-soaked photos with vibrant colours and a ‘dolce far niente’ spirit. How did that come about?
The first early images came from years before my sabbatical. During my yearly homecoming trips in the summertime, after a year of never-ending winter, everything around me would immediately look so cinematic, and I’d be drawn to take pictures when I was at the beach. In a way, distancing myself from what I thought I knew gave me a new pair of eyes. The light was so different that it felt worth photographing the people around me: my mum, my friends, my sister.
So it started with those summer memories, and later on, during my sabbatical, I finally had the time to go back to my pictures and make a summer book. To help with the selection process, I created an Instagram page, thinking that sharing the images would guide me. But I soon realised I wanted to shoot more, and that what I already had wasn’t enough. So every day, surrounded by nature, I began photographing myself and my partner, or objects around me, and Tempo Bello began.
Tempo Bello means ‘good weather,’ and it’s a phrase people in Italy repeat constantly. It made me think about how much we are shaped by the weather.
Tempo Bello also became the common thread in all my images. In fact, without the blue sky and the sun, there wouldn’t be any photographs.
So it started with those summer memories, and later on, during my sabbatical, I finally had the time to go back to my pictures and make a summer book. To help with the selection process, I created an Instagram page, thinking that sharing the images would guide me. But I soon realised I wanted to shoot more, and that what I already had wasn’t enough. So every day, surrounded by nature, I began photographing myself and my partner, or objects around me, and Tempo Bello began.
Tempo Bello means ‘good weather,’ and it’s a phrase people in Italy repeat constantly. It made me think about how much we are shaped by the weather.
Tempo Bello also became the common thread in all my images. In fact, without the blue sky and the sun, there wouldn’t be any photographs.
Nude bodies, fresh fruits, and of course, the sea; you portray an idealised version of summer. How do you recall the summers of your childhood, and how similar or different are they now that you’re re-linking with your birth country?
I was born on the last Sunday of June in 1991. There is a strange memory, more like a feeling, that I still carry with me, even now, whenever it’s summer and I’m walking around the house getting ready to go to the sea. The blinds are down, sunlight filters through the window. All the windows are open and the wind moves the white curtains. I’m three or four years old. I’m wearing a light cotton dress. It feels fresh. It’s morning. I’m in my parents’ bedroom and I see the big pine tree outside the window. The cicadas are singing, as well as the birds. It must be Saturday or Sunday. We’re all getting ready to go swimming. Not much has changed since then. No matter what house I am in, if it’s summer and it’s morning, I still recall that emotion and memory.
But something has changed: the anxiety of summer grows stronger every year. What I hate about summer is that it’s never long enough. It’s too short. And unfortunately, that creates anxiety in me, because I feel the pressure of it ending. There’s never enough time.
But something has changed: the anxiety of summer grows stronger every year. What I hate about summer is that it’s never long enough. It’s too short. And unfortunately, that creates anxiety in me, because I feel the pressure of it ending. There’s never enough time.
Guide us through your perfect summer day: where do you go, what activities do you do/not do, what do you eat, who are you with, what music plays in the background…
During my journey, I finally had the chance to fully experience the morning, which, to me, is the best time of day. I was finally enjoying the most powerful hour of the day: the moment when energy is ready to unleash itself. For most of my life, I spent mornings within some walls, be it at home, in school, or at the office. But for the first time, for a year, I had the privilege of living my mornings in the open: appreciating every ray of sunshine, every shift in the weather, waking up outside, ready to live without wasting a single minute trapped in some concrete cube. The feeling was simply liberating. Morning is when we have the most energy. The sun is rising. The silence is still there.
My perfect summer day begins when I wake up early, around 6:30, and walk down the path that leads from the city to a group of white rocks by the sea. At that hour, no one is there. I take off my clothes and dive into the silence, surrounded by sparkles. I swim. The best is when I share this moment with my partner. But I also love it when I’m alone. When I’m done swimming, I get out, take a quick shower, and lie down on the white rocks. I soak up the sun for about thirty minutes, and then I head back up the path. My day couldn’t possibly start better than that. If there were a soundtrack to this scene, it would be Mediterranea by Giuni Russo.
My perfect summer day begins when I wake up early, around 6:30, and walk down the path that leads from the city to a group of white rocks by the sea. At that hour, no one is there. I take off my clothes and dive into the silence, surrounded by sparkles. I swim. The best is when I share this moment with my partner. But I also love it when I’m alone. When I’m done swimming, I get out, take a quick shower, and lie down on the white rocks. I soak up the sun for about thirty minutes, and then I head back up the path. My day couldn’t possibly start better than that. If there were a soundtrack to this scene, it would be Mediterranea by Giuni Russo.
You mention discovering two essential things during this sabbatical year: time and sunlight. Why do you think they’re so vital in your life (and everyone else’s)?
I always say I have no time. The older I get, the more time slips away. And I believe we all feel the same way. When I was a teenager in school, time was going so slow. I wanted to be older and independent, I wanted to fast forward it, like a shitty song on the walkman. Then, when I moved to Amsterdam at twenty-four, time started to speed up on its own. Three years became eight years. I lost control.
There was never enough time to do a lot of the things I would have liked to do. Especially creatively. I had in mind so many projects. But to make them, I needed time. So for me, taking a break and finding time again was very important. It opened up a lot of possibilities that would have remained blocked if I didn’t at least try to gain back some of my time. It’s only with time on your side that you can create. And having time creates the right amount of space from all the noise, and from that emptiness, great things can come out. Now I’m a freelancer and I balance commercial projects with artistic ones. In a way, freelancing allows me to have more time. But to be honest, the feeling that there’s never enough time remains, whether you have a full-time job or you’re a freelancer.
“If the Sun, which is so far away, dies, you will die at the same moment. If the rays of the Sun stop reaching the Earth, you will no longer exist. Your body cannot exist without the Sun, no matter how remote it may seem. Somehow, you are deeply connected,” wrote Osho. When I read this in a book, I understood the importance of the sun. It’s like your best friend that gives you the push to get outside of bed. You see it outside the window and he’s screaming at you: come on, I’m here, what are you doing there? I actually feel I can’t stay inside when he’s out there, I can’t say no to the sun, I have to go outside otherwise he will be upset and I will also be upset if I don’t see him. And I don’t wanna live without my best friend, one that pushes me to be alive and inspires me every time I see him.
There was never enough time to do a lot of the things I would have liked to do. Especially creatively. I had in mind so many projects. But to make them, I needed time. So for me, taking a break and finding time again was very important. It opened up a lot of possibilities that would have remained blocked if I didn’t at least try to gain back some of my time. It’s only with time on your side that you can create. And having time creates the right amount of space from all the noise, and from that emptiness, great things can come out. Now I’m a freelancer and I balance commercial projects with artistic ones. In a way, freelancing allows me to have more time. But to be honest, the feeling that there’s never enough time remains, whether you have a full-time job or you’re a freelancer.
“If the Sun, which is so far away, dies, you will die at the same moment. If the rays of the Sun stop reaching the Earth, you will no longer exist. Your body cannot exist without the Sun, no matter how remote it may seem. Somehow, you are deeply connected,” wrote Osho. When I read this in a book, I understood the importance of the sun. It’s like your best friend that gives you the push to get outside of bed. You see it outside the window and he’s screaming at you: come on, I’m here, what are you doing there? I actually feel I can’t stay inside when he’s out there, I can’t say no to the sun, I have to go outside otherwise he will be upset and I will also be upset if I don’t see him. And I don’t wanna live without my best friend, one that pushes me to be alive and inspires me every time I see him.
You also mention feeling like “a fish out of water” in your own womanhood. How has that relationship with yourself and your body changed over time, especially during the sabbatical?
These are reflections that I had been doing while I was in my sabbatical, when I started to write about my images. I used the same technique applied in psychotherapy: the first image or memory that comes to mind reflects something important, perhaps a forgotten trauma that left a mark on the subconscious. I applied this technique to my photographs and I gained meaning by attaching the first memory that surfaced as I looked at them.
When I saw the image of the fish in the forest, I immediately saw myself as a teenager wanting to leave Italy and explore other possibilities, feeling trapped in a place where I didn’t feel I belonged. But that image also made me reflect on my relationship with womanhood. It brought up the constant, big, conflicting feeling of aspiring towards masculine strength, chasing an idealised image of manhood, disregarding my own womanhood. An image that the society I grew up in built in my mind praising men and diminishing women.
During my sabbatical, I simply became more aware of myself and of my roots. I had time to think, to reflect, to write and analyse. A luxury in the world of adulthood.
When I saw the image of the fish in the forest, I immediately saw myself as a teenager wanting to leave Italy and explore other possibilities, feeling trapped in a place where I didn’t feel I belonged. But that image also made me reflect on my relationship with womanhood. It brought up the constant, big, conflicting feeling of aspiring towards masculine strength, chasing an idealised image of manhood, disregarding my own womanhood. An image that the society I grew up in built in my mind praising men and diminishing women.
During my sabbatical, I simply became more aware of myself and of my roots. I had time to think, to reflect, to write and analyse. A luxury in the world of adulthood.
People from southern Europe usually emigrate to northern Europe because of higher salaries and better quality of life, but they usually miss the good weather, the good food, and the warmth of people. Do you see yourself ever going back to the Netherlands (or Germany, or the UK, Austria, etc.) for professional opportunities?
I miss many things about Amsterdam. I loved the culture — so free yet so organised. I miss all my friends from all over the world, they gave me different perspectives.The perfect place to live doesn’t exist. There will always be something missing wherever we go. That’s why I’m not done going places. I’m still searching for where to go next. What’s certain is that, after experiencing the sun again with a new pair of eyes, it would be hard to go back to the full-time rain.
