Writing Where Caravaggio Died: A Search for Presence

I am here in Porto Ercole, in the house where Caravaggio died, trying to make progress on my novel.

I think about the adventurous life he must have lived—and about my own—and I can’t help but feel disappointed.

For years I’ve been trying to turn a screenplay of mine into a novel, and I’ve tried everything. I experimented with both first- and third-person narration. Then, dissatisfied, I tried to hide the flaws in the plot by rewriting it in poetic prose.

Failure after failure piled up.

And yet, as I typed on the keyboard, the writing felt fluid and musical, and I couldn’t understand where I was going wrong. Some journalist friends had even praised my command of language, saying I was perhaps too literary, drawing comparisons that did nothing but flatter me.

But no matter how hard I tried, every page felt forced and artificial.

Yes, the sentences worked. The settings were interesting. The plot was engaging.

But I felt like I was only skimming the surface of the characters—distant from them.

I was like a director pulling their strings, and they had the depth of mannequins.

It was a quality I had struggled to acquire, following the cinematic mantra of “show, don’t tell,” and one I could no longer abandon.

With the rise of AI, things only got worse.

I rushed to buy an iPad Pro and got to work.

Did I really believe a machine could improve my writing?

For a few days, it seemed so.

But feeding it large chunks of the novel only stripped it of personality, making it grammatically perfect but increasingly anonymous and hollow.

So what was I really searching for?

The iPad Pro was incredibly powerful, AI ever more sophisticated…

But isn’t it imperfection and fragility that make us human?

And isn’t that what we seek from artists?

I needed to step away for a while—to recover the energy and the original motivation behind a project that, I felt, was slipping out of my hands.

But life, as Virginia Woolf would say, seemed to chase me with barking dogs that distract you from your work—and it would certainly have been easier to give up.

So when I read about Punkt’s Digital Balance Challenge 2025, I thought:

now or never.

I had followed Punkt for years and longed for that simpler lifestyle, for that clarity of thought I had so admired in early Steve Jobs.

In a way, that simplicity—despite the sheer volume of his work—was the same one my hero Tolstoy preached.

It was time to draw a line under the confusion and act radically.

But would I be able to?

Would I be able to pierce the veil I had created between myself and my characters?

It was time to find out.

The Challenge Begins

For the challenge, I asked a friend to lend me his house in Porto Ercole for a weekend.

It is a deconsecrated church overlooking the harbor from its terrace.

A plaque in front of the house reads:

“Michelangelo Merisi, known as Caravaggio, likely landed at Sbarcatello, a small harbor southwest of Porto Ercole, hidden from the strict control of the Spanish. The painter had a death sentence hanging over his head and was desperately searching for the felucca carrying his paintings. These three works were his only hope of receiving papal pardon. Wounded and ill, in extreme heat, he fainted and was rescued, then taken to the hospice of the Brotherhood of Santa Croce, which cared for foreigners. After two days of agony, on July 18, 1610, he died and was buried in the small cemetery of San Sebastiano. The building, now deconsecrated, features a portal made of cavernous limestone with two crosses carved into the jambs.”

Deep down, I hoped the place itself might offer me inspiration.

In my suitcase I packed only a few things: some clothes, the Punkt MP02, a fountain pen and paper, a Contax T2 with a single roll of Portra, and an old Olivetti Lettera 22 typewriter.

Withdrawal

On the train, anxiety hit me.

In my entire life, ever since email and WhatsApp became dominant forms of communication, I had never gone a single day without checking them.

Which meant I had never gone a day without browsing or connecting.

I smiled.

Once, “to browse” meant adventure—discovering new continents—not endlessly scrolling in search of the next thing to buy.

And “to connect” meant forming deep, meaningful relationships with others.

And now—how would I write?

Panic crept in.

Not having a computer meant becoming truly vulnerable.

To calm myself, I thought of Wendell Berry, the American writer I admire for his courage and radical ideas.

In his 1987 essay Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer, he laid out eight reasons—without irony—why he would continue writing with a pencil instead of a computer.

Controversial, yet sharp.

I began to feel a deep, intense desire for contact with reality.

The fountain pen or the typewriter would introduce a physical dimension to writing—something I hoped would unlock new insight.

It would be like walking and thinking.

I would think better.

To truly write meant confronting one’s fears—and required absolute concentration.

As a writer, I aspire to belong to that current of thought that believes there is something magical in writing—that it allows access to something deeper, beyond our small ego.

Whether we call it emotional intelligence or the generosity of the muses doesn’t matter.

As the crackling loudspeaker announced my stop, I thought about my favorite books.

Most of them had been written before the invention of computers.

Arrival

Once I arrived at Orbetello station, I sent an SMS to my wife:

“All good, I just got here.”

I loved the slowness I was forced into while typing it. It reminded me that I wasn’t in a hurry.

I don’t have WhatsApp, yet she still receives the message and replies that she’s about to go to bed and that she loves me.

I realize that’s enough.

I don’t feel the need to see a selfie of her to feel reassured by her love.

For years now, I’ve had an irrepressible urge to limit my use of technology.

I belong to Generation X—the generation that saw the birth of mass media, then the internet and mobile phones, then social media, and now artificial intelligence.

For so many years I gave so much to screens, and I can say that they gave very little—or nothing—back.

In fact, only in recent years have I become certain that they have quietly taken information from me without my consent—something I have experienced, and still experience, as an aggression.

After reading Digital Minimalism by Cal Newport, I permanently closed all my social media accounts, including my growing Instagram account that had reached twelve thousand followers in a year—and I still have no regrets.

Instinctively, I reached for my smartphone to check which bus would take me to Porto Ercole.

But I had no smartphone.

No tablet.

No computer.

The moment we ask our phone for directions, I thought, we entrust ourselves to corporations rather than to other people.

The “other,” interrupting our relationship with the enticing screen, becomes an enemy.

They stand between us and the promise of entertainment offered by our portable OLED.

For years, I was an early adopter—and I’m still not entirely immune.

I chased devices as if they were promises of a better life.

I still remember proposing a trip to Paris to my wife—when in reality I just wanted to rush to the Orange store and buy the first unlocked iPhone.

Not to mention the road trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco, with a mandatory stop in Cupertino, as if it were a pilgrimage.

And yet, the more technology I accumulated, the emptier I felt.

The smartphone never truly gave me back the energy I invested in it.

It amplified my fears and disguised them as distractions.

It’s the perfect excuse to procrastinate—and I know I used it fully.

Every notification, every message, every opportunity to “stay connected” gave me the illusion of doing something productive, while in reality I was shifting my life elsewhere.

There was never space to truly confront myself.

The Bus Ride

The station bar was closing.

I stepped inside and asked for a juice, a small pizza, and a sandwich wrapped in plastic from a woman who seemed slightly irritated by my late request.

I ate the sandwich, then asked the cashier which transport would take me to Porto Ercole.

He said a bus would arrive in a few minutes.

From my bag, I pulled out my jacket and put it on.

Despite it being late September, it was one of those days that reminds you summer is over.

Outside, I watched two dogs—a mixed-breed older one and a dachshund puppy—running around the square.

The younger one lifted a paw and barked somewhere between challenge and play, leaving the other confused yet amused.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, I boarded the bus.

There were only a few other people, as the tourist season was ending.

I saw them swaying in the twilight, their faces lit by their phones.

No one spoke.

No one smiled.

And then it struck me:

the smartphone had become the cigarette of our time.

In my day, when you felt awkward, you smoked.

Now, you just pull out your phone.

It’s easier to look down at a screen than to meet a stranger’s gaze.

Perhaps, I thought, instead of shaping reality, the smartphone fragments it—making it shapeless.

And in doing so, it makes us more insecure and afraid.

In the age of AGI, humans are more confused than ever—without solid ground beneath their feet and without a mysterious horizon to aspire to.

In this sense, the smartphone becomes a rabbit hole disguised as a candy bar, pulling us into a dreamlike world where objects have no weight.

How can an artist—or someone who aspires to be one—live like this?

The objects inside the screen are immortal, untouchable.

They possess the opposite qualities of those humans must obey:

they don’t change, they are not subject to gravity, they don’t form chemical neural bonds, they don’t move in physical space, they don’t feel fear or love, they don’t emit warmth.

And so they appear to us as the pinnacle of civilization—new Greek gods on Mount Olympus, entertaining us with endless relationships we can never truly grasp.

In the name of convenience (from the Latin commensura), they measure our lives—our steps, our heartbeats—telling us what is best for us in an existence that has become fragmented.

Arrival in Porto Ercole

I arrived in Porto Ercole.

Following directions I had copied by hand onto a map, I easily reached the house.

I felt a strange sense of satisfaction:

I had arrived without using a single app.

It was dark, and I was tired.

The bedroom turned out to be more welcoming than I could have hoped.

After eating the small pizza, I brushed my teeth and went to bed.

Tomorrow would be my first day of writing—

a new writing, clear and intense.

Or at least that’s what I believed, as sleep clouded my mind.

Morning

It’s early morning.

With the typewriter and some notes, I step out onto the terrace, into the pink sky and the cool air.

Here I am, finally alone, to write a book in the place where Caravaggio died.

The thought that I am older than he was when he died torments me:

I haven’t lived even one hundredth of his wild life. I haven’t created anything.

Perhaps because my life has always been based on fear.

Fear of making mistakes, fear of not being good enough, fear of not liking myself.

These monsters are hard to face, and every excuse to procrastinate becomes useful.

And what is the tool that, under the guise of practicality, provides every possible excuse not to do what we truly want?

Perhaps coming here was a stupid idea.

Just another failure to add to the list.

On Pigeon, I reply to a message from an American friend, then call my father to make sure everything is fine.

He asks me how the book is going.

“Magnificently,” I reply.

I place the typewriter on the iron table overlooking the harbor and turn the Punkt phone face down.

While playing with it, I discovered a setting that allows you to silence it simply by flipping it.

A simple gesture—and the act itself gives me pleasure.

I’m not forced into submenus, not pressing buttons, not risking getting lost in apps or notifications.

Finally, I am disconnected.

I insert a blank page into the typewriter.

And now?

I can’t even press a single key.

Deep down, I think, I don’t deserve it.

I think about how Caravaggio must have seen the world—how, without photography or cinema, he was so bold, how he wasn’t afraid of himself.

What allowed him to surpass the painters of his time?

I make myself a cup of instant coffee.

My friend who lent me the house forgot to leave a moka pot.

It tastes burnt, nothing like what I’m used to, but the smell is similar, and I accept it.

I feel an irresistible urge to check my email, to see what has happened in the world in these few hours.

But there is nothing I can do.

I have no smartphone, no computer, and I still can’t get used to it.

I try to call a friend to brag about where I am, but he doesn’t answer.

I look out over the harbor.

Some boats are setting sail, others starting their engines while waiting for the crew.

The sky, which had made everything calm and flat, is suddenly covered by threatening clouds appearing from behind the hills surrounding the town.

A gust of cold, salty wind hits me.

I take my Contax T2 and decide to go down.

A bit of movement will do me good.

The Harbor

A final ray of sunlight falls gently on my skin.

As I walk down, I realize there are few people around.

I take the Contax T2 from my pocket and begin shooting.

Some boats are under maintenance, a small devotional statue has a candle burning beside it.

Inside one of the shops, I see a man talking to the sales assistant.

He’s one of those people who always gestures—sometimes holding his hands mid-air as if praying, sometimes tapping his bald head—never still, convinced that his arguments become more truthful through movement.

In an empty bar, a blonde girl stares at the sea, bored, her head resting on her hands.

I pass a group of curious onlookers watching a boat docking.

They chat as if they know everything about life.

I continue along the pier toward the arm stretching into the sea.

The clouds inland are so dark—I need to hurry, it’s going to rain any moment.

Before leaving, I had checked the forecast, which predicted rain all week. Perhaps that’s why no one came.

The wind on my face intensifies, though not as much as the waves suggest.

Fishing nets are piled one on top of another like sculptures of different colors, and the wooden boats, painted in pastel shades and worn out, don’t seem very reliable.

I reach the farthest point of the pier.

At the end, where it bends, I see squared rocks breaking the waves and a large marble statue of a saint with open arms.

Facing the land, that long-haired man seems to embrace the old town.

I wander along the final stretch, but the wind has picked up, and I have to hold my hat to keep it from flying away.

A soft beam of sunlight now falls onto the water, gilding the blue sea.

It’s a magnificent sight.

I go down the red iron steps to shelter from the cold and reach the lower walkway.

When I turn back, I notice an old, gaunt man sitting on a green iron bench, legs dangling.

He stares absentmindedly at the now-black sky.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” he replies.

“Shame about the rain.”

“It won’t rain today, don’t worry. This wind will keep those clouds away.”

I thank him, reassured.

As I climb back up the tuff steps toward the house, I think about Caravaggio’s final moments.

His body must have been carried along those very steps.

Perhaps, I realize, this is what sets his work apart.

In his paintings, what strikes you is not only the physicality of bodies, nor the precision of human emotion, nor even the presence of the weak in places once reserved for the powerful.

All of these are important.

But the real reason is something else.

In his paintings, there are no ornaments.

Everything is stripped bare. Essential.

That essentiality becomes essence itself—a pure concentration of action and emotion.

That’s where the power lies.

He does not defer, does not escape.

He takes reality as it is.

As the viewer’s gaze evolves, the epiphany happens within their mind.

And even when intention is present, doubt remains:

is the light truly divine, or just chance?

Think of Paul’s hand, raised toward nothing, leaving us to wonder whether it is faith—or madness.

Caravaggio’s painting takes our breath away.

At times, it feels more real than reality itself.

Will I ever achieve such intensity in my writing?

Will I be able to capture turning points without explaining them?

Will I face reality in its truth, even if—like Agnes Martin—I turn my back on it?

I need to calm down.

All this mental chatter isn’t helping.

Writing Begins

I step out onto the terrace.

The old fisherman was right—it won’t rain.

The Punkt lies there.

I’m tempted to flip it to check if someone has called me.

“No,” I tell myself.

But as often happens, I contradict myself.

I turn it.

The screen is black.

I press the power button, but it would require unlocking to see notifications.

Still, just turning on the screen is enough to soothe my anxiety.

I think about why I believe so much in stories.

The word comes from the Greek historía, meaning inquiry, investigation, knowledge gained through exploration.

My urge to write comes from there.

From the desire to investigate, to understand, to question reality.

I must become a witness (hístōr).

Only then can I create something new.

To achieve that presence, everything must begin with sincerity—without filters.

I take a breath.

I feel renewed.

The longer I stay in this state, the more a new energy fills me.

It is not pleasure.

It is joy.

The joy of being alive.

A quiet hope arises.

Maybe I can do it.

Maybe even I, whose life is nothing extraordinary, can build something lasting—letter by letter, word by word, paragraph by paragraph.

Slowly, inevitably.

It is not me that matters, with all my problems.

It is the writing itself.

Tac.

The first letter.

An “M”.

No algorithm predicts what I should write.

Only the page and my consciousness.

Then an “i”.

I exhale.

As I write, I feel myself disappear.

That’s what I want.

Because another world appears—one just as intense, if not more, than the one around me.

I remember Paul Harding’s interview:

you must observe the characters without imposing yourself.

Yes.

I feel I’m entering that space.

After years, finally, they impose themselves.

And I think:

even if I haven’t lived like Caravaggio, I feel good.

After so long.

There are no comparisons to make.

No news to follow.

I know that it is not—and never will be—the tool that makes me perfect.

Not the next iPhone.

The solution to my writing lies within me—

in allowing myself to let go.

Without distractions.

— Michele Malfetta