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Nonna-Maxxing: The Viral Trend Making Gen Z Fall in Love with Italian Grandmothers
For years, social media convinced us that the ultimate role model was the perfect influencer: flawless looks, a ten-step skincare routine, ever-changing outfits, and a life punctuated by trends that moved at the speed of a swipe. Then, something unexpected happened. TikTok and Instagram began filling up with videos dedicated to Italian grandmothers. The result was a minor cultural earthquake.

The phenomenon is called "Nonna-maxxing," and it highlights a surprising shift in perspective: Gen Z is no longer looking solely to celebrities or big-name creators for inspiration. Instead, they are finding it in an aesthetic defined by simplicity, authenticity, and small daily rituals.
vogueadria.com

theguardian.com

Feeds Full of Headscarves, Homemade Pasta, and Cardigans
You only need to open TikTok or Instagram to see it in action. Clips show nonne (grandmothers) preparing fresh pasta, picking tomatoes from the garden, hanging laundry in the sun, shopping at local markets, tending to flowers, or sipping coffee on a balcony.
cnn.com

The imagery almost always shares the same atmosphere: warm colors, natural light, and vintage Italian music or nostalgic remixes. Everything seems to slow down. In a landscape dominated by fast-paced, hyper-produced content, these videos convey a different feeling. More than being perfect, they feel real. And that is exactly where their power lies.

More Than Vintage: A Nostalgia That Speaks to the Present
The success of Nonna-maxxing isn't just about an obsession with retro aesthetics. Behind this trend lies something deeper. Over the last few years, nostalgia has become one of Gen Z's favorite languages. We see it in the return of early-2000s digital cameras, MiniDV camcorders, film-emulating filters, and fashion inspired by parents' closets.
vogueadria.com

Nonna-Maxxing: The Viral Trend Making Gen Z Fall in Love with Italian Grandmothers
For years, social media convinced us that the ultimate role model was the perfect influencer: flawless looks, a ten-step skincare routine, ever-changing outfits, and a life punctuated by trends that moved at the speed of a swipe. Then, something unexpected happened. TikTok and Instagram began filling up with videos dedicated to Italian grandmothers. The result was a minor cultural earthquake.

The phenomenon is called "Nonna-maxxing," and it highlights a surprising shift in perspective: Gen Z is no longer looking solely to celebrities or big-name creators for inspiration. Instead, they are finding it in an aesthetic defined by simplicity, authenticity, and small daily rituals.
vogueadria.com

theguardian.com

Feeds Full of Headscarves, Homemade Pasta, and Cardigans
You only need to open TikTok or Instagram to see it in action. Clips show nonne (grandmothers) preparing fresh pasta, picking tomatoes from the garden, hanging laundry in the sun, shopping at local markets, tending to flowers, or sipping coffee on a balcony.
cnn.com

The imagery almost always shares the same atmosphere: warm colors, natural light, and vintage Italian music or nostalgic remixes. Everything seems to slow down. In a landscape dominated by fast-paced, hyper-produced content, these videos convey a different feeling. More than being perfect, they feel real. And that is exactly where their power lies.

More Than Vintage: A Nostalgia That Speaks to the Present
The success of Nonna-maxxing isn't just about an obsession with retro aesthetics. Behind this trend lies something deeper. Over the last few years, nostalgia has become one of Gen Z's favorite languages. We see it in the return of early-2000s digital cameras, MiniDV camcorders, film-emulating filters, and fashion inspired by parents' closets.
vogueadria.com

In a Culture Obsessed with the Answer, Listening has Become a Countercultural Act
We live inside ever-faster conversations. We talk, we comment, we react—often before we’ve truly understood what the other person is trying to say.

In this continuous flow, listening has become a rarity. It isn't because we lack words, but because we lack the space necessary for them to fully land. To listen means to momentarily suspend your own version of the facts, to renounce the immediate response, and to accept that a conversation doesn’t necessarily have to produce a conclusion, a solution, or a stance.

It isn't the same as silence. It isn't politely waiting for your turn to speak. It is an active form of presence that requires attention, openness, and the ability not to immediately turn someone else's experience into a comparison with your own.

The Problem Isn’t Talking Too Much
Being listened to is a basic human need. It means feeling recognized, not just heard. Yet many contemporary conversations seem built on a different logic: while one person speaks, the other is already preparing a rebuttal, looking for a weak point, formulating advice, or identifying a similar experience to recount. Dialogue thus becomes a succession of monologues. People share the same space—physical or digital—but not necessarily the same attention.

The problem isn't that people talk too much today. The ability to tell one's story, to be seen, and to speak up remains a vital achievement, especially for those who were historically excluded from public conversations. The fracture occurs when every exchange becomes a competition to occupy the center. The other person’s voice isn't welcomed; it’s used as a springboard to return to oneself.

The Culture of Immediate Reaction
Digital platforms have made this dynamic more glaring. Comments, reactions, voice notes, and notifications push us toward continuous communication, where being "present" primarily means responding quickly.

Speed is often confused with interest. An immediate reply seems to prove attention, while a pause can be interpreted as distance, coldness, or disinterest.

In a Culture Obsessed with the Answer, Listening has Become a Countercultural Act
We live inside ever-faster conversations. We talk, we comment, we react—often before we’ve truly understood what the other person is trying to say.

In this continuous flow, listening has become a rarity. It isn't because we lack words, but because we lack the space necessary for them to fully land. To listen means to momentarily suspend your own version of the facts, to renounce the immediate response, and to accept that a conversation doesn’t necessarily have to produce a conclusion, a solution, or a stance.

It isn't the same as silence. It isn't politely waiting for your turn to speak. It is an active form of presence that requires attention, openness, and the ability not to immediately turn someone else's experience into a comparison with your own.

The Problem Isn’t Talking Too Much
Being listened to is a basic human need. It means feeling recognized, not just heard. Yet many contemporary conversations seem built on a different logic: while one person speaks, the other is already preparing a rebuttal, looking for a weak point, formulating advice, or identifying a similar experience to recount. Dialogue thus becomes a succession of monologues. People share the same space—physical or digital—but not necessarily the same attention.

The problem isn't that people talk too much today. The ability to tell one's story, to be seen, and to speak up remains a vital achievement, especially for those who were historically excluded from public conversations. The fracture occurs when every exchange becomes a competition to occupy the center. The other person’s voice isn't welcomed; it’s used as a springboard to return to oneself.

The Culture of Immediate Reaction
Digital platforms have made this dynamic more glaring. Comments, reactions, voice notes, and notifications push us toward continuous communication, where being "present" primarily means responding quickly.

Speed is often confused with interest. An immediate reply seems to prove attention, while a pause can be interpreted as distance, coldness, or disinterest.

Posters, Clothes, and Clutter: The Emotional Archive of a Pre-Social Media Generation
A girl sits on the edge of her bed, hands propped behind her back. Around her, a plaid blanket, illustrated sheets, wooden furniture, and small objects left in no apparent order coexist. Nothing seems staged. Yet, every detail speaks. In Adrienne Salinger’s photographs, the bedroom isn’t just a background. It is an extension of the body—a self-portrait composed before anyone had even learned to use that word. Posters, records, clothes, and photographs tell stories of desires, belongings, and contradictions with a precision that no pose could ever replace.

The project began in the late eighties and early nineties and was published in 1995 under the title In My Room: Teenagers in Their Bedrooms. Salinger entered the private spaces of dozens of American teenagers, photographing them and capturing their stories through long conversations. Thirty years after its initial release, the work has returned in a new expanded edition published by D.A.P., featuring 26 previously unreleased images.

The Room Before the Photograph
Salinger often met her subjects in malls or on the street. She would ask to photograph them at home under one condition: they were not to clean their rooms before her arrival. The goal wasn’t to catch them in a secret act, but to prevent the space from being transformed into a "presentable" version of the self. The sessions could last for hours. The photographer talked with the teenagers, showed them Polaroids, and used continuous lighting so they could understand how they would appear in the image. It was a way to reduce, as much as possible, the power imbalance between the person holding the camera and the person being observed. The subjects often look directly into the lens—they aren't bodies exposed by an adult gaze, but presences responding to it.

This tension distinguishes the series from typical adolescent photography built on stereotypes. There are no generic rebels, honor students, or romantic figures consumed by angst. There are specific people immersed in specific environments.

Posters, Clothes, and Clutter: The Emotional Archive of a Pre-Social Media Generation
A girl sits on the edge of her bed, hands propped behind her back. Around her, a plaid blanket, illustrated sheets, wooden furniture, and small objects left in no apparent order coexist. Nothing seems staged. Yet, every detail speaks. In Adrienne Salinger’s photographs, the bedroom isn’t just a background. It is an extension of the body—a self-portrait composed before anyone had even learned to use that word. Posters, records, clothes, and photographs tell stories of desires, belongings, and contradictions with a precision that no pose could ever replace.

The project began in the late eighties and early nineties and was published in 1995 under the title In My Room: Teenagers in Their Bedrooms. Salinger entered the private spaces of dozens of American teenagers, photographing them and capturing their stories through long conversations. Thirty years after its initial release, the work has returned in a new expanded edition published by D.A.P., featuring 26 previously unreleased images.

The Room Before the Photograph
Salinger often met her subjects in malls or on the street. She would ask to photograph them at home under one condition: they were not to clean their rooms before her arrival. The goal wasn’t to catch them in a secret act, but to prevent the space from being transformed into a "presentable" version of the self. The sessions could last for hours. The photographer talked with the teenagers, showed them Polaroids, and used continuous lighting so they could understand how they would appear in the image. It was a way to reduce, as much as possible, the power imbalance between the person holding the camera and the person being observed. The subjects often look directly into the lens—they aren't bodies exposed by an adult gaze, but presences responding to it.

This tension distinguishes the series from typical adolescent photography built on stereotypes. There are no generic rebels, honor students, or romantic figures consumed by angst. There are specific people immersed in specific environments.

Capri: Where the Idea of the Italian Vacation Was Born

Today, summer is synonymous with the sea, aperitifs at sunset, and days without a schedule. But the very concept of a vacation is much more recent than one might think. For centuries, travel was not for leisure: it was for education, trade, or necessity. Between the 18th and 19th centuries, young European aristocrats embarked on the Grand Tour—long journeys through Italy to discover its art, history, and landscapes. Capri soon became part of this story: a small, sun-drenched island that began to attract artists, writers, and intellectuals in search of inspiration. Even before it became a glamorous destination, Capri already held the promise of escape.

The Invention of the Italian Vacation

In the 20th century, the meaning of travel changed profoundly. With the economic boom, tourism grew and a new concept of leisure emerged.

Capri: Where the Idea of the Italian Vacation Was Born

Today, summer is synonymous with the sea, aperitifs at sunset, and days without a schedule. But the very concept of a vacation is much more recent than one might think. For centuries, travel was not for leisure: it was for education, trade, or necessity. Between the 18th and 19th centuries, young European aristocrats embarked on the Grand Tour—long journeys through Italy to discover its art, history, and landscapes. Capri soon became part of this story: a small, sun-drenched island that began to attract artists, writers, and intellectuals in search of inspiration. Even before it became a glamorous destination, Capri already held the promise of escape.

The Invention of the Italian Vacation

In the 20th century, the meaning of travel changed profoundly. With the economic boom, tourism grew and a new concept of leisure emerged.

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