Portraits of Places is a fashion film that explores the connection between identity and architecture within the multicultural context of London. Through the portraits of five young individuals and their homes, the film creates a visual dialogue between people and the spaces they inhabit, showing how a home can become an extension of the body, an additional layer of our identity, like a garment that represents us.

Five buildings, chosen for their different architectural styles, from the Victorian house, to the rationalism of Highpoint I, to the brutalism of Whittington Estate, serve as the backdrop to five unique stories. In each, the cultural blends that define London and its inhabitants are reflected.

To inhabit a place means to engage with it, to allow it to transform us, and at the same time, to transform it. Each home reflects the personality and journey of its inhabitant, just as the styling is designed to amplify the dialogue between the individual and the space. Between architecture, body, and clothing, a visual and symbolic connection is formed, where aesthetics and identity intertwine and transform one another.

Portraits of Places is a film-portrait that celebrates identity and architecture as living, ever-
changing expressions, mirroring the diversity and urban complexity of a city like London.

RITAMORENA ZOTTI: How did the idea for Portraits of Places come about? It seems like a project born from an intimate sensitivity toward space and identity.

ENRICO BELLENGHI: Portraits of Places was born during the years I lived in London. I lived in different neighborhoods, each with a strong visual and cultural identity. I was interested in exploring that borderline area between place and person, between inhabited space and the space that inhabits us. London, with its architectural and cultural density, gave me the chance to reflect on how living in a place is an act that defines us—like an extension of the body. That’s where the idea came from: to create a film that would be a portrait of both people and space at the same time.

RZ: In the film, the home almost becomes an extension of the body. When did you start to perceive living as an autobiographical act?

EB: To be honest, it’s a concept I’ve always felt close to, maybe because my grandfather was an architect and built my grandparents’ house, where I spent most of my childhood. For the past six years, I’ve been working on a photographic project about that house, precisely starting from this thought: the idea that architecture can contain the identity of those who live in it, that every space is a form of autobiography.

RZ: London is a layered, fragmented city—both intimate and collective. What drew you to tell its story through its everyday architecture?

EB: I’m drawn to telling stories of diversity in all its forms, and London embodies this theme even in its urban structure. Each neighborhood is a story of its own, every building is a statement of a language—often overlapping, reinterpreted. Telling the story of London through everyday living spaces meant, for me, conveying its complexity: the coexistence of personal and collective stories.

RZ: Every face, every space, every detail seems to respond to a shared grammar: that of care. What role did empathy play in your directing process?

EB: I wanted the film to have an introspective gaze, where the analysis of space and people emerged naturally. Empathy was fundamental to gently entering the visual composition. The cinematographer, Laura Aguilera, was able to visually translate this sensitivity. Her visual style perfectly aligns with my idea of directing—we share a taste for clean, essential images, where every element is chosen with precision. It’s an aesthetic I prefer in film.

RZ: What guided your choice of architectural styles and subjects? Was it a research-based process or more of a chance encounter with people and places?

EB: Each home was selected to tell a different fragment of London’s architectural identity. I did research on the structures, although London certainly doesn’t lack variety: from the rationalism of Highpoint I to the brutalism of Whittington Estate, each building is a story in itself. I chose buildings with strong character, able to interact with the protagonists without overpowering them.

RZ: In the film, the dressed body and the inhabited body mirror each other. How did you build this parallel between fashion and architecture?
EB: Fashion and architecture are two disciplines that speak the same language: they build volumes around the body, protect it, expose it, tell its story. In Portraits of Places, I tried to bring out this dialogue—not through pure aesthetics, but through the harmony between form and meaning. Clothes and spaces thus become two surfaces where identity is imprinted.

RZ: The clothing doesn’t seem to decorate but rather to declare. How closely did you work with the stylist and costume designers to express the identities at play?

EB: Stylist Maria Anita Pompili was a vital presence in the project. We were classmates at university, and even back then, we had explored together the theme of dwelling as both a spatial and clothing-related dimension. In this project, we continued that dialogue, building each look as an emotional extension of the place and the person. Each outfit tells a story; it doesn’t simply aim to “work.”

RZ: The camera’s gaze is intimate but never intrusive. How did you choose to film domestic spaces while maintaining this sense of delicacy?

EB: I wanted to create an introspective and contemplative film, where the camera would be a silent, almost hidden observer. The spaces we inhabit are vulnerable and intimate places, and for this reason, I chose to film them with a gentle approach.

RZ: The editing rhythm is contemplative, almost like breathing. Was there an emotional score you followed in shaping the film’s sense of time?

EB: Each home has its own rhythm, its own emotional cadence. Together with Stefano Paussa, the editor, we tried to listen to that rhythm and follow it. The editing never imposes an external pace but instead accompanies the internal rhythm of the characters and the spaces. It’s as if the film breathes with those who inhabit it, without interrupting that natural flow.