I know perfectly the city where I was born and where I have always lived. I could go anywhere following the fastest route, they could even blindfold me, leave me in any corner of the streets and I would immediately recognize the place where I am. There is only one street where I have never passed, near the station, where a red and white sign announces the presence of a porn cinema.
In all the years I’ve passed through the intersection from which the sign is visible, I’ve always had a kind of dread in turning my gaze, not so much out of shame, more out of fear of seeing something I shouldn’t have. As if expecting to find a movie set along the sidewalk, or a poster that didn’t leave much room for imagination.




Tales from generations past speak of that cinema as a 18-year-old momentum (or earlier if you were lucky), in a season of conquering sexual freedom and opening up to a range of images that, judged by the thermometer of the time, could be defined as obscene. In this same climate, in a brief period from the late ’70s to the early ’80s, Marialba Russo‘s photographic work in Naples began.
The streets in those years began to fill with posters of hard films, and it is precisely the attractive charm of those works that lead Marialba Russo to photograph them secretly, from a distance, fleetingly or leaning out of the roof of her Due Cavalli.



The illustrations of those flans, collected in a beautiful book published by NERO Edition entitled Public Sex (2020), seen today are demure pornography, but at the time they were the sign of a split in a Catholic and patriarchal morality. Marialba Russo documents it through the collection of illustrations of adolescent and non-adolescent dreams, which a few years later are eliminated and in the years surpassed by an all you can eat pornography.
The collection is a work that is difficult to catalogue, if it were not for the fact that the pornographic genre in those years began to insinuate itself into other genres such as comedy, thanks to the stardom of actresses who also remained in the stories of those eighteen year olds mentioned a few lines above.
I look at Marialba Russo’s work and think back to the tic that leads me, at almost 30 years of age, to still dodge the sign for the cinema Roma, as if it were that soft-porn scene from the film that was on TV while I was on the couch with my parents. It is the documentary importance of the photographs that determines their value, in years in which much more imagination was needed to imagine the pleasure, it was enough not to look away from the street.
