In 1921, my great-great-grandfather left Italy to seek his fortune in the USA. Sailing aboard a ship called America, he arrived at Ellis Island, where he had to pass through customs before finally being admitted into the country. Like him, hundreds of thousands of immigrants leaving Europe passed through these very gates. It was a place of both sorrow and joy—sorrow for those who fell sick and died, and joy for those who reunited with their families to begin a new life. Luckily, my great-great-grandfather made it through.

Searching the registry of Ellis Island, I discovered he was headed to Massachusetts. I don’t know much more about him, only that he started a new family there, spending the rest of his days traveling back and forth between the old and new country—one family in Italy, the other in America. In this picture, taken just as I was leaving Ellis Island, the mist felt weird, the light was off, and I felt like I was stepping back in time, as if I could feel the presences of those who passed by this place. Or, perhaps, it was the spirits of those who never managed to leave. Once I developed the film of my camera and saw this image, it captured emotions words could never tell. New York, USA, 2025.