This is an unpublished project premiered today on C41 Magazine.
Antonio Ragni grew up in Molise, in a seaside village, a small place with a great cultural ferment but mostly unknown. During his youth he never received a camera as a gift. At the end of 90’s he moved to Milan to study at Politecnico where he remained until 2008. He’s now living in Romagna but he’s still in love with Milan. Antonio Ragni mainly deals with fashion and advertising, his works have been published by several newspapers and magazines all around the world but he finds in storytelling his intimate valve against the wear and tear of everyday life. As director, he has worked with musicians such as Nightskinny, Rkomi, Fadi, Scarda, Ibisco and others.
About ‘California Dreamin’ – words by Antonio Ragni:
Harleys, let’s face it, have contributed to the myth of a wild America, desolate landscapes and freedom. That myth, decades later, thanks to cult movies like “Easy Riders” or “Then Came Bronson”, still seems to be alive among the fans and it does not seem to diminish. In Italy, as in the rest of the world, a considerable number of fans can be found within the HOG (Harley Owners Group), whose acronym is also a play on words since that hog (pig in English) is also the most popular nickname given to Harleys. Hog differs from the “onepercenters” clubs for its family approach and because it is open to everybody, in order to join it is necessary to own a Harley motorcycle and to pay a membership fee. The local emanations of the Hog are called Chapters and they are spreaded pretty much in every Italian city. The symbol of the Hog is a patch with an eagle with outstretched wings upon a motorcycle’s spoked wheel. This patch is worn at the front of the vest, on the left side and also on the back, in a larger size, as a back patch.
Becoming a full member of a Chapter requires a probationary period of varying length, during which the candidate must demonstrate participation and a desire to attend club meetings. The final decision is made by the Chapter, but it is subject to the unconditional veto of the sponsoring dealer, who has absolute power over practically everything related to the sponsored chapter. This very close dependence with the dealer is one of the reasons that makes the Hog an excellent marketing tool and a case of success for the Harley Davidson company, even though it has lost a lot of the motorcycling spirit of the past. Symbols such as the eagle with outstretched wings, even though they are still present, they have lost all the intrinsic value and even the freedom so much acclaimed seems to be just a legacy of times gone by. The current members themself no longer have anything to share with the old Harleys owners. The rough man, bearded, has been outclassed by the fifty years bold and pot- bellied dude, rolex on the wrist and horsehide’s ankle boots . Harleys of the past with their slim line, are definitely gone, replaced by glittering flagships of the American company that look like more like an heavy truck rather than a motorcycle, with a price that goes around 40,000 euros, especially if full optional. Hog parties, the pride of this club, scattered throughout Italy with a full calendar of events, are attended by all sort of people with questionable tattoos, some of which are clearly fascist inspired, their faces are baked by countless solariums and the rooms are filled in with American flags placed everywhere.
The women, loyal companions of their men, wear daring clothes on their plentiful breasts with continuous references to the Harley brand. If it weren’t for the countless slangs, primarily Venetian and Lombard, that echo through the asphyxiated reception room and a few patches with the words “boia chi molla”, it would seem like being at a convention of avid Trump fans. The countless patches, the eagles, the American flags of every size and shape, really make you think of a cross-section of America in Italy but the reality is quite different. The feeling is that everything is simply dictated by the appearance and that we are facing a commercial phenomenon absolutely devoid of authenticity. A social phenomenon imported from the United States but that has nothing of American, it’s just a great festival where 2.0 fans of the famous American motorcycles brand meet to party, celebrating a myth now in decline. Here, in a large downgraded hotel in the Riviera Romagnola, whose Swarovski-like chandeliers soar above my head in a huge, unfurnished hall, the bikers, who have come quietly from all over Northern Italy, are getting ready for a weekend of wild dancing and aperitifs dined in the best Italian tradition.
An “all you can eat” buffet of precooked food consumed by the pool, is the destination of pilgrimage for the whole evening until even the waiters abandon the field, leaving room for dentists in the grip of alcohol, red-faced, whose kneaded voices celebrate an old song of Vasco Rossi. California with its endless boulevards, landscapes overlooking the sea and the scent of alleged freedom, is really far from here where everything, apart from the Harleys, is more reminiscent of a modest village festival where we celebrate the rise and fall of an economic mirage that is slowly fading away, of looming instalments, complicated divorces to face and vices that struggle to go away.
