Return to Arturo’s Island: Photographer Marta Giaccone captures coming-of-age on a tiny Italian island

NOTE: All photo subjects for Ritorno all’isola di Arturo by Marta Giaccone gave their permission to be photographed and are now adults who have consented to the publishing of their likeness.

In the Gulf of Naples, about an hour’s ferry ride from the Italian mainland, the tiny island of Procida often goes overlooked as tourists head for luxurious neighbors like Capri and Ischia. Yet Procida’s rugged, stunning landscape hasn’t been entirely ignored, with several fictional books and films waxing poetic about its alluring charms over the last century.

In 1957, celebrated Italian author Elsa Morante published Arturo’s Island, the best-known tale featuring Procida, which chronicled the story of a teenage boy navigating adolescence within its isolated confines. With only a love of books to inform Arturo of the wider world, the eponymous narrator’s romantic view of life’s journey collides with complex hardships. Meanwhile, enchanting descriptions give Procida a distinct personality, where every dilapidated landmark influences Arturo’s passage to adulthood.

Milanese photographer Marta Giaccone had never heard of Procida before watching Damiano Damiani’s 1962 cinematic adaptation of Arturo’s Island. However, its evocative story and captivating imagery closely reflected her existing documentary work exploring the convoluted nature of family and relationships. Just a couple days later, in 2013, she boarded a ferry to Procida’s historic port, home to weathered multi-generational skippers and anglers.

“I grew up in Milan, which is very much the opposite of the island, so I was really curious. I’m always curious about observing an alternative life to the one I lead,” Marta says regarding the inspiration for the series, Ritorno all’isola di Arturo (Return to Arturo’s Island). “While these kids live on a tiny island, I was raised in the center of Milan. So, I thought, what if I had lived there?”

“The kids are really proud and close to the island. Maybe because it’s shared with so many people. But to them, Procida is theirs.”

- Marta Giaccone

The dirt roads Morante described might be mostly paved now, but Procida doesn’t have the same glamorous reputation as Capri and Ischia. At just four square kilometers (1.5 square miles) in size, pastel-colored buildings and picturesque sea views contrast with shabby restaurants and a crumbling, abandoned prison. Just as Arturo wondered, Marta wanted to know whether this remote place could provide all the ingredients for a satisfying life.

Arriving on Procida for the first time, Marta planned to form a creative partnership with a single boy and emulate scenes from Damiani’s black-and-white film. But it soon became apparent that building trust with a teenage stranger wasn’t going to be easy. Sacrificing the island’s “postcard-perfect” scenery for monochromatic film didn’t feel right either. So she made some adjustments with some color film and an open mind, sparking up a conversation with a young local girl, hoping to get introduced to her friends.

As it turned out, Marta would document the lives of this singular group for years to come. “She took me to this soccer field and was just like: ‘Hey everyone, this lady wants to take our photos, so be cool,’” laughs Marta. “There were maybe 10 to 20 kids aged 10 to 13 there, but this girl—we’re still friends—she’s the one who brought me in. I like how when we start a project, we have all these ideas about how it will be, but then it organically develops on its own.”

Marta continued to visit the island—and her photo subjects—around twice a year to see how this clique navigated the whims of adolescence. With each visit establishing more trust, she became like a big sister to the girls, while the boys saw her as an authority figure. Getting to know their parents as well, Marta documented how their coming-of-age takes shape somewhere protected from the outside world yet isolated from otherwise ordinary experiences.

Following this group as they crisscrossed Procida on their bicycles, Marta used a Rollieflex film camera to capture life in this bubble. Here, everyone knows each other’s name and learning “every square centimeter” of the island isn’t so impossible. Through countless conversations, Marta heard how most of her friends couldn’t wait to escape Procida’s bounds, while others saw no reason to leave their secluded home behind.

One girl, “the smartest of the bunch,” says Marta with a smile, dreamt of moving to Naples to study architecture. “She told me, ‘I’ll have to move somewhere to work because it’s not like you can build anything new on Procida’. She was like, ‘There are already a couple of architects on the island, they don’t need another.’”

Upholding Procida’s age-old seafaring traditions didn’t appeal to many of the kids, but one boy couldn’t think of anything better than leading a simple life on the water. “He comes from a family of fishermen, so it’s his one love. He does that every night. At the same time, he’s not studying, he doesn’t care, he just wants to be a fisherman. Living in the city, you don’t really get that,” says Marta.

The teens behind these stories are now adults and have so far followed their path just as they once described. More have moved away for university or found work on the mainland. You might think there would be no looking back, but according to Marta, almost everyone in the series hopes to return someday to raise a family enriched with the same sense of community and freedom they experienced.

“I think Procida is famously the little sister of the other islands. They keep things a bit rundown to both preserve how the island looks, and what it looked like, but it’s also a way to stop people from coming.”

- Marta Giaccone

“The kids are really proud and close to the island, which is something I’ve never felt, sadly, with Milan. Maybe because it’s shared with so many people. But to them, Procida is theirs.”

Procida’s population has remained steady for at least the last 40 years, with a little more than 10,000 permanent residents spread around the island. However, as other parts of Italy have experienced, a rising number of tourists to the Campania region threatens its communal atmosphere. This is why the island isn’t overly interested in attracting more visitors, despite being named Italy’s Capital of Culture for 2022.

Even Procida’s mayor, Raimondo Ambrosino, doesn’t seem especially excited by the prospect of more tourist dollars. Following the announcement, he simultaneously told The New York Times he experienced an “explosion of joy,” while cautioning that “the Capital of Culture puts us too much in view.” Marta believes that desire to stay hidden might explain why Procida has a distinct lack of luxury hotels, or even a fresh coat of paint for the buildings around its harbor.

Supported by a nautical academy that has produced world-class sea captains and shipbuilders since the late 1700s, the local fishing industry drives the island’s economy rather than outside visitors. “I think Procida is famously the little sister of the other islands,” says Marta. “They keep things a bit rundown to both preserve how the island looks, and what it looked like, but it’s also a way to stop people from coming.”

While the island has changed little since Marta first stepped off the ferry a decade ago, both her life and those she photographed have gradually moved on. She relocated to Estonia while the children she met on the soccer field are now young adults shaping their futures. Although she hasn’t quite closed the book on Return to Arturo’s Island, Marta wonders whether this natural break in the story is the best place to mark its end.

“We used to talk a lot more—they still look at my stuff and I look at theirs on social media—but now it’s been three years since the last time I visited,” she says about growing distant from those in her series, adding how she wishes the project could go on forever. “But I know if I write to them, it would be like we never stopped talking.”