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01__LovesLampedusa.jpg
05_Series_OurLovesRefuge_LoveGraffiti_Lampedusa.jpg
 I shuffle through Ballaro; the dingiest quarter of the colourful ghetto, Palermo. Ornate the architectural edging the shuffling feet along the iron balconies above. The meek crumbling Madonna relic solemnly sits above the markets mellons. Jesus woefully hangs way up high alongside the pink Palermo flags; illusive the wind, so raw the sun shines does his holiness bling. The Heavenly Father casts his stark jutting shadow suppressing all mid toned hue whilst the African below swim majestically through.  An intense passion and spirit filled the air, serendipitously a scuffle between a group of dealers on top of mat selling shoes led my purchase of sandals blood free. A mishmash of worn out tatty pieces; a boot with a converse, another combo a fake leather boot of centred. Broken wrist straps presented on a whimsical tatty towel laid virtually empty, I doubt from thriving sales. Beside a group of pens in worst condition than the few biros I had in my bag;I felt incredibly wealthy.  I now found myself deep within a slum inhabited by a Ghanaian community. Drifting ideally from street to street, or in a pocket of sun standing in the blistering heat non shaded. I approached to their surprise, unlike a majority of Sicilians we could converse in English. A frenzied response of desperation was apparent only after I said I was British. Suddenly I was some form of savior, the Brit. Somebody who could click my finger and get them to the final destination. The Ultimate dream of Camberwell or Brixton the supreme fairytale. A place where and only there, its going to be possible to reside and be free. The tale of their desperate bids of escaping an impoverished regime, across the treacherous ocean to Lampedusa left me in awe. Escaping the island and gaining entry into Sicily.  Did I feel like the ultimate snob handing out euros in exchange for an image, which enhanced their perception of my power.   A few strides and a bend away I advanced into a cobbled stoned square, a couple of dudes slumped lethargically on a bench with draping cleaning shammys at hand. The majority of cars driven by Sicilians were mangled, dusty and completely not road worthy. Their exasperated expression and posture led me to believe the car cleaning trade was not booming. Loudly and Incomprehensibly one shouted at me in reaction to my trance like stare. I approached and shook his hand which seemed to instantly defuse everything, forced my hand into his companions grasp who shook my hand with childlike enthusiasm. Then the two began to make out passionately caressing each other, convoluting their shape underneath the jolts of of shadow like an abstract painting in the high sun. I stood awkwardly sunburnt. My camera half mast baffled- now the voyeur overwhelmed but too close to pretend I was merely photographing shrubs. The cafe across the street turned into an audience and a couple of cars entered the clearance probably the first in a century. A stage for the two immigrants sexing it up with the turquoise sandalled red man pretending I wasn't meant to be there. What a performance. An amazing public display of affection. I seemed to be the catalyst for this behaviour, I shared an interested in them so they displayed their love and devotion for the camera. Not bombastically either, It felt deeper. Poor and gay struggling as a couple in the Sicilian capital without a voice as a refugee. It was a moment of overcoming adversity, being on the fringes and fucking off the non tolerance in the surroundings. A very tender moment and an extremely powerful one it was. They thanked me with deep sincerity. I strangely felt part of this union and celebration. They trusted me and were brave enough to realise I wouldn't be prejudice. That was enough for me, but looking back over my shoulder in the setting sun couldn't help thinking how vulnerable and isolated these two were.  Shuffling along away from the ghetto I eventually made it to the historical derelict sea front. The wind whipping its spray refreshingly I spotted a lonely figure right on the cusp near the rocks. Chin on hand passively looking out to sea without a care in the world. He was a Senegalian refugee named Ato, stranded now his electoral two month visa had expired plotting his meticulous advance to the dreamed land Britain. Unable to cultivate his farmland he lacked resources to survive and this is now his Hajj for a better future. For him Britain was a place where he could get a house, develop a business maybe have a wife. He shares a cramped room with a group of 12. They leave their dwellings with no status and with no sense of integration to far from home and a long way away from the dream land. I reluctantly told him I was British after he pursued my nationality. He asked why was I in Sicily and how I got there. I thought for a second and gave a blunt short answer which left a lump in my throat,'i'm on holiday, I came by plane.'

I shuffle through Ballaro; the dingiest quarter of the colourful ghetto, Palermo. Ornate the architectural edging the shuffling feet along the iron balconies above. The meek crumbling Madonna relic solemnly sits above the markets mellons. Jesus woefully hangs way up high alongside the pink Palermo flags; illusive the wind, so raw the sun shines does his holiness bling. The Heavenly Father casts his stark jutting shadow suppressing all mid toned hue whilst the African below swim majestically through.

An intense passion and spirit filled the air, serendipitously a scuffle between a group of dealers on top of mat selling shoes led my purchase of sandals blood free. A mishmash of worn out tatty pieces; a boot with a converse, another combo a fake leather boot of centred. Broken wrist straps presented on a whimsical tatty towel laid virtually empty, I doubt from thriving sales. Beside a group of pens in worst condition than the few biros I had in my bag;I felt incredibly wealthy.

I now found myself deep within a slum inhabited by a Ghanaian community. Drifting ideally from street to street, or in a pocket of sun standing in the blistering heat non shaded. I approached to their surprise, unlike a majority of Sicilians we could converse in English. A frenzied response of desperation was apparent only after I said I was British. Suddenly I was some form of savior, the Brit. Somebody who could click my finger and get them to the final destination. The Ultimate dream of Camberwell or Brixton the supreme fairytale. A place where and only there, its going to be possible to reside and be free. The tale of their desperate bids of escaping an impoverished regime, across the treacherous ocean to Lampedusa left me in awe. Escaping the island and gaining entry into Sicily.  Did I feel like the ultimate snob handing out euros in exchange for an image, which enhanced their perception of my power. 

A few strides and a bend away I advanced into a cobbled stoned square, a couple of dudes slumped lethargically on a bench with draping cleaning shammys at hand. The majority of cars driven by Sicilians were mangled, dusty and completely not road worthy. Their exasperated expression and posture led me to believe the car cleaning trade was not booming. Loudly and Incomprehensibly one shouted at me in reaction to my trance like stare. I approached and shook his hand which seemed to instantly defuse everything, forced my hand into his companions grasp who shook my hand with childlike enthusiasm. Then the two began to make out passionately caressing each other, convoluting their shape underneath the jolts of of shadow like an abstract painting in the high sun. I stood awkwardly sunburnt. My camera half mast baffled- now the voyeur overwhelmed but too close to pretend I was merely photographing shrubs. The cafe across the street turned into an audience and a couple of cars entered the clearance probably the first in a century. A stage for the two immigrants sexing it up with the turquoise sandalled red man pretending I wasn't meant to be there. What a performance. An amazing public display of affection. I seemed to be the catalyst for this behaviour, I shared an interested in them so they displayed their love and devotion for the camera. Not bombastically either, It felt deeper. Poor and gay struggling as a couple in the Sicilian capital without a voice as a refugee. It was a moment of overcoming adversity, being on the fringes and fucking off the non tolerance in the surroundings. A very tender moment and an extremely powerful one it was. They thanked me with deep sincerity. I strangely felt part of this union and celebration. They trusted me and were brave enough to realise I wouldn't be prejudice. That was enough for me, but looking back over my shoulder in the setting sun couldn't help thinking how vulnerable and isolated these two were.

Shuffling along away from the ghetto I eventually made it to the historical derelict sea front. The wind whipping its spray refreshingly I spotted a lonely figure right on the cusp near the rocks. Chin on hand passively looking out to sea without a care in the world. He was a Senegalian refugee named Ato, stranded now his electoral two month visa had expired plotting his meticulous advance to the dreamed land Britain. Unable to cultivate his farmland he lacked resources to survive and this is now his Hajj for a better future. For him Britain was a place where he could get a house, develop a business maybe have a wife. He shares a cramped room with a group of 12. They leave their dwellings with no status and with no sense of integration to far from home and a long way away from the dream land. I reluctantly told him I was British after he pursued my nationality. He asked why was I in Sicily and how I got there. I thought for a second and gave a blunt short answer which left a lump in my throat,'i'm on holiday, I came by plane.'

sicily12.jpg
afreaka.jpg
man12.jpg
sicily13.jpg
sicily14.jpg
sicily10.jpg
sicily06.jpg
Benjamin_Hampson_Hope_05.jpg
sicily16.jpg
sicily02.jpg
lookk.jpg
new02.jpg
sicily05.jpg
sicily09.jpg
sicily04.jpg
sicily08.jpg
sicilyo7.jpg
sicily03.jpg
blackdudeandbaby.jpg
sicily01.jpg
Benjamin_Hampson_hope_16.jpg

I shuffle through Ballaro; the dingiest quarter of the colourful ghetto, Palermo. Ornate the architectural edging the shuffling feet along the iron balconies above. The meek crumbling Madonna relic solemnly sits above the markets mellons. Jesus woefully hangs way up high alongside the pink Palermo flags; illusive the wind, so raw the sun shines does his holiness bling. The Heavenly Father casts his stark jutting shadow suppressing all mid toned hue whilst the African below swim majestically through.

An intense passion and spirit filled the air, serendipitously a scuffle between a group of dealers on top of mat selling shoes led my purchase of sandals blood free. A mishmash of worn out tatty pieces; a boot with a converse, another combo a fake leather boot of centred. Broken wrist straps presented on a whimsical tatty towel laid virtually empty, I doubt from thriving sales. Beside a group of pens in worst condition than the few biros I had in my bag;I felt incredibly wealthy.

I now found myself deep within a slum inhabited by a Ghanaian community. Drifting ideally from street to street, or in a pocket of sun standing in the blistering heat non shaded. I approached to their surprise, unlike a majority of Sicilians we could converse in English. A frenzied response of desperation was apparent only after I said I was British. Suddenly I was some form of savior, the Brit. Somebody who could click my finger and get them to the final destination. The Ultimate dream of Camberwell or Brixton the supreme fairytale. A place where and only there, its going to be possible to reside and be free. The tale of their desperate bids of escaping an impoverished regime, across the treacherous ocean to Lampedusa left me in awe. Escaping the island and gaining entry into Sicily.  Did I feel like the ultimate snob handing out euros in exchange for an image, which enhanced their perception of my power. 

A few strides and a bend away I advanced into a cobbled stoned square, a couple of dudes slumped lethargically on a bench with draping cleaning shammys at hand. The majority of cars driven by Sicilians were mangled, dusty and completely not road worthy. Their exasperated expression and posture led me to believe the car cleaning trade was not booming. Loudly and Incomprehensibly one shouted at me in reaction to my trance like stare. I approached and shook his hand which seemed to instantly defuse everything, forced my hand into his companions grasp who shook my hand with childlike enthusiasm. Then the two began to make out passionately caressing each other, convoluting their shape underneath the jolts of of shadow like an abstract painting in the high sun. I stood awkwardly sunburnt. My camera half mast baffled- now the voyeur overwhelmed but too close to pretend I was merely photographing shrubs. The cafe across the street turned into an audience and a couple of cars entered the clearance probably the first in a century. A stage for the two immigrants sexing it up with the turquoise sandalled red man pretending I wasn't meant to be there. What a performance. An amazing public display of affection. I seemed to be the catalyst for this behaviour, I shared an interested in them so they displayed their love and devotion for the camera. Not bombastically either, It felt deeper. Poor and gay struggling as a couple in the Sicilian capital without a voice as a refugee. It was a moment of overcoming adversity, being on the fringes and fucking off the non tolerance in the surroundings. A very tender moment and an extremely powerful one it was. They thanked me with deep sincerity. I strangely felt part of this union and celebration. They trusted me and were brave enough to realise I wouldn't be prejudice. That was enough for me, but looking back over my shoulder in the setting sun couldn't help thinking how vulnerable and isolated these two were.

Shuffling along away from the ghetto I eventually made it to the historical derelict sea front. The wind whipping its spray refreshingly I spotted a lonely figure right on the cusp near the rocks. Chin on hand passively looking out to sea without a care in the world. He was a Senegalian refugee named Ato, stranded now his electoral two month visa had expired plotting his meticulous advance to the dreamed land Britain. Unable to cultivate his farmland he lacked resources to survive and this is now his Hajj for a better future. For him Britain was a place where he could get a house, develop a business maybe have a wife. He shares a cramped room with a group of 12. They leave their dwellings with no status and with no sense of integration to far from home and a long way away from the dream land. I reluctantly told him I was British after he pursued my nationality. He asked why was I in Sicily and how I got there. I thought for a second and gave a blunt short answer which left a lump in my throat,'i'm on holiday, I came by plane.'

01__LovesLampedusa.jpg
05_Series_OurLovesRefuge_LoveGraffiti_Lampedusa.jpg
 I shuffle through Ballaro; the dingiest quarter of the colourful ghetto, Palermo. Ornate the architectural edging the shuffling feet along the iron balconies above. The meek crumbling Madonna relic solemnly sits above the markets mellons. Jesus woefully hangs way up high alongside the pink Palermo flags; illusive the wind, so raw the sun shines does his holiness bling. The Heavenly Father casts his stark jutting shadow suppressing all mid toned hue whilst the African below swim majestically through.  An intense passion and spirit filled the air, serendipitously a scuffle between a group of dealers on top of mat selling shoes led my purchase of sandals blood free. A mishmash of worn out tatty pieces; a boot with a converse, another combo a fake leather boot of centred. Broken wrist straps presented on a whimsical tatty towel laid virtually empty, I doubt from thriving sales. Beside a group of pens in worst condition than the few biros I had in my bag;I felt incredibly wealthy.  I now found myself deep within a slum inhabited by a Ghanaian community. Drifting ideally from street to street, or in a pocket of sun standing in the blistering heat non shaded. I approached to their surprise, unlike a majority of Sicilians we could converse in English. A frenzied response of desperation was apparent only after I said I was British. Suddenly I was some form of savior, the Brit. Somebody who could click my finger and get them to the final destination. The Ultimate dream of Camberwell or Brixton the supreme fairytale. A place where and only there, its going to be possible to reside and be free. The tale of their desperate bids of escaping an impoverished regime, across the treacherous ocean to Lampedusa left me in awe. Escaping the island and gaining entry into Sicily.  Did I feel like the ultimate snob handing out euros in exchange for an image, which enhanced their perception of my power.   A few strides and a bend away I advanced into a cobbled stoned square, a couple of dudes slumped lethargically on a bench with draping cleaning shammys at hand. The majority of cars driven by Sicilians were mangled, dusty and completely not road worthy. Their exasperated expression and posture led me to believe the car cleaning trade was not booming. Loudly and Incomprehensibly one shouted at me in reaction to my trance like stare. I approached and shook his hand which seemed to instantly defuse everything, forced my hand into his companions grasp who shook my hand with childlike enthusiasm. Then the two began to make out passionately caressing each other, convoluting their shape underneath the jolts of of shadow like an abstract painting in the high sun. I stood awkwardly sunburnt. My camera half mast baffled- now the voyeur overwhelmed but too close to pretend I was merely photographing shrubs. The cafe across the street turned into an audience and a couple of cars entered the clearance probably the first in a century. A stage for the two immigrants sexing it up with the turquoise sandalled red man pretending I wasn't meant to be there. What a performance. An amazing public display of affection. I seemed to be the catalyst for this behaviour, I shared an interested in them so they displayed their love and devotion for the camera. Not bombastically either, It felt deeper. Poor and gay struggling as a couple in the Sicilian capital without a voice as a refugee. It was a moment of overcoming adversity, being on the fringes and fucking off the non tolerance in the surroundings. A very tender moment and an extremely powerful one it was. They thanked me with deep sincerity. I strangely felt part of this union and celebration. They trusted me and were brave enough to realise I wouldn't be prejudice. That was enough for me, but looking back over my shoulder in the setting sun couldn't help thinking how vulnerable and isolated these two were.  Shuffling along away from the ghetto I eventually made it to the historical derelict sea front. The wind whipping its spray refreshingly I spotted a lonely figure right on the cusp near the rocks. Chin on hand passively looking out to sea without a care in the world. He was a Senegalian refugee named Ato, stranded now his electoral two month visa had expired plotting his meticulous advance to the dreamed land Britain. Unable to cultivate his farmland he lacked resources to survive and this is now his Hajj for a better future. For him Britain was a place where he could get a house, develop a business maybe have a wife. He shares a cramped room with a group of 12. They leave their dwellings with no status and with no sense of integration to far from home and a long way away from the dream land. I reluctantly told him I was British after he pursued my nationality. He asked why was I in Sicily and how I got there. I thought for a second and gave a blunt short answer which left a lump in my throat,'i'm on holiday, I came by plane.'
sicily12.jpg
afreaka.jpg
man12.jpg
sicily13.jpg
sicily14.jpg
sicily10.jpg
sicily06.jpg
Benjamin_Hampson_Hope_05.jpg
sicily16.jpg
sicily02.jpg
lookk.jpg
new02.jpg
sicily05.jpg
sicily09.jpg
sicily04.jpg
sicily08.jpg
sicilyo7.jpg
sicily03.jpg
blackdudeandbaby.jpg
sicily01.jpg
Benjamin_Hampson_hope_16.jpg