The Art of Remembering

There is a moment, somewhere between waking and dreaming, where memory softens at the edges.

Where the past isn’t just recollected but felt—filtered through golden light, the sound of distant laughter, the weight of a gaze that lingers just a second too long.

Cinema once lived in that space.

The great composers understood it: the way a melody could suspend time, not by telling a story, but by suggesting one.

A few notes, and suddenly, you are walking down a rain-slicked street in Rome, the scent of espresso in the air, a shadow disappearing just beyond the corner.

Or perhaps you’re in a dimly lit ballroom, a half-empty glass in your hand, watching the way the chandeliers tremble with the weight of an unspoken farewell.

Music has always had the power to turn memories into something cinematic. It doesn’t just remind us of what was—it colors it, shapes it, elevates it. It whispers, this is how it could have been.

Today, I release Velvet Dreams—a piece born from that space.

It carries traces of old film scores, the echoes of Morricone, Piccioni, Rota. A melody that might have belonged to another time but somehow finds its place here, now, waiting for you.

You may already know this feeling. Or perhaps, when you listen, you’ll remember it.

Listen to Velvet Dreams here.

Enjoy, and have a nice day.

Claudio.