The dark head of a hippo smiles from the corner of a photograph, looking at various big mammals, each closed in its own case, its new spare and insufficient habitat, on the same inappropriate checked floor. But on the floor we see a live cat, making itself at home, and beyond a door we can see a washing machine.

A display case contains a scene featuring ostriches, large and small, or still in the eggshell. In the background different birds hold different poses, in profile, motionless, eternal at this point. But below the display case of the ostriches we see a few pairs of shoes. We don’t know to whom they belong or why they are lined up there in a row.

Other images of birds repeat and are overlaid on images of the world outside the museum. It is impossible to understand if these are real scenes, installations or the result of digital processing.

Common household objects and living pets positioned here and there in the impressive exhibits of a small Museum of Natural History make us think of the home, of everyday life, of the little things we all do, the weaknesses of life. But what’s going on? Has the photographer brought objects and animals here, to stage these tableaux? Or are we looking at evidence of a simple, homey way of running and experiencing a museum, where the guards make themselves at home? Who are the inhabitants of the museum?

This, in the end, is photography: a way of attributing an effect of reality to a given situation, be it possible or impossible – if there is such a thing as an impossible situation. And what is reality, that reassuring term we often use to understand and justify things, remains a mystery.

Roberta Valtorta