To experience Germano’s work is to step into a space of silence and vertigo. It
begins in the details: the eye dives into a photograph of tree bark and gets lost in
its grooves, as if tracing a topographical map of existence. Each crack is a
timeline; each texture, a record of wind and drought. Suddenly, that fragment
expands into a universe. What you're seeing is no longer wood, but the Earth’s
own skin. This quiet epiphany found in the visible echoes through his abstract
paintings, where the same energy is translated into color and gesture—revealing
that, for Germano, photography and painting aren’t separate languages, but a
continuous dialogue between material observation and emotional resonance.
Germano is an artist driven by a fundamental choice—one that defines his entire
poetic vision. When asked what draws him in most, his answer gets to the heart of
his pursuit: he prefers what endures over what simply blooms. A flower, in all its
brilliance, celebrates life at its peak. But endurance—the silent force that bends
without breaking, that wears its scars like memory—holds a deeper, almost
sacred kind of beauty. His art is a tribute to that perseverance. He doesn’t chase
the perfect moment, but honors stubborn presence, the beauty forged in
adversity—turning struggle into a visual form of wisdom.
In the Amazon, this perspective becomes seismic. To Germano, the vastness of
the rainforest isn’t a spectacle to be framed, but a complex body to be listened
to. In his eyes, the rivers that cut through the land are at once “pathways, scars,
and open veins.” As pathways, they carry ancestral memory and culture. As
scars, they bear the painful marks of exploitation and environmental violence—
traces of what’s been lost. And as open veins, they pulse with the vital force that
sustains everything, reminding us that the forest is a living organism: bleeding
and nourishing in one continuous, urgent flow. His work captures this inseparable
trinity, revealing a territory that is both sanctuary and battleground.
His creative process, then, becomes an act of surrender. Germano often feels, he
says, that “images choose him”—as if they’re waiting for the right moment to
reveal themselves. It’s a state of readiness, a subtle attunement to the world that
allows him to recognize the transcendent in the everyday. Photographing, for him,
becomes a way of “touching the memory of the Earth”—an act of communion,
not possession. He sees a clear connection between “the endurance of trees and
the persistence of art”: both are silent witnesses, telling stories through growth
rings or visual forms passed down through generations—each rooted in the belief
that enduring is worthwhile.