V.(Field Note) StromboliPhilip Samartzis
(Reading time, 20m50s)Preface
These essays were written over eight days on Stromboli during July 2026.
The residency was hosted by Marosi, where Giulia Ferrato welcomed Leandro Pisano and me to the island. Stromboli and Ginostra occupy opposite sides of the volcano. The Sciara del Fuoco and the steep volcanic slopes separating them leave the two settlements connected only by sea.
The island rises directly from the Tyrrhenian Sea to a summit 924 metres above it. Four active vents occupy the crater terrace, erupting at regular intervals throughout the day and night. Between the shoreline and the volcano there is little level ground. Houses, gardens and narrow streets occupy the limited terraces available for habitation.
Roberto Rossellini's Stromboli (1950) transformed the island from a remote fishing community into a destination recognised well beyond the Aeolian Islands. Tourism now exists alongside older forms of livelihood that continue to shape everyday life. Traditional fishing boats remain in use while Piaggio Ape three-wheelers negotiate the steep streets, their distinctive engines becoming one of the defining sounds of the island.
The essays follow encounters across harbours, villages, volcanic slopes and the surrounding sea. Over time I became aware that the volcano was experienced less through moments of eruption than through its continual presence. It revealed itself in drifting plumes, ash settling across the village, explosions returning at familiar intervals, and the occasional vibration of my room before the sound arrived. Around it, everyday life continued. Ferries crossed between islands, fishermen read the sea, visitors walked the shoreline, freshwater arrived by tanker and the island adapted, as it has for generations, to the rhythms of an active volcano.
Arrival
During the night Leandro and I cross the Tyrrhenian Sea by ferry from Naples to Stromboli. Shortly before dawn the island appears on the horizon. The volcano is erupting. Four vents eject incandescent lava above the crater terrace before it falls back into darkness. Each explosion briefly reveals the summit before darkness returns. For thousands of years sailors approaching Stromboli have watched for the same signal.
As daylight gathers the island slowly separates into distinct forms. The volcano rises directly from the sea. Deep gullies descend from the upper slopes through increasingly dense vegetation before giving way to gardens, houses and narrow lanes along the shoreline. There is little level ground. Almost everything either climbs towards the summit or falls back to the sea.
Leandro and I disembark shortly after sunrise where we are met by Giulia Ferrato, director of Marosi, our cultural partner on Stromboli. Before leaving the harbour we stop for pistachio cornetti and coffee. Afterwards we begin walking towards Ficogrande where Giulia lives. Along the way a fisherman pulls alongside us on his motor scooter carrying the morning's catch. Giulia buys several squid before he continues on.
The road follows the shoreline towards Ficogrande. Below, rows of umbrellas and deckchairs stand unevenly on the black sand beach. There is no one there. The beach, formed from coarse volcanic cobbles, slopes towards the sea. Moist black sand glistens between the larger stones in the early morning light.
Nearby, a small ticket office sells tickets to the Sciara del Fuoco, Ginostra and the neighbouring islands. Faded maps remain pinned to the walls while a weathered Australian flag covers one side of the front window.
Giulia's house sits a short distance inland behind a dense garden of fruit trees, olives and flowering vines. A pergola enclosed by bougainvillea shades the courtyard where we eat, work and spend much of the week. From here the volcano disappears behind the surrounding vegetation. Only from the upstairs veranda does the summit become visible above the trees.
Later that afternoon Giulia and her family lead Leandro and me towards the Sciara del Fuoco. Leaving the village, the path climbs steadily through dense vegetation before emerging onto the upper slopes. Fruit trees and gardens give way to shrubs and grasses before exposed ash and loose volcanic rock begin to dominate the landscape.
As we continue climbing, Mario recalls the fire that swept across Stromboli in May 2022 after pyrotechnics used during the filming of a television series ignited the island's dry vegetation. Large areas of the island burned before the fire was brought under control. Later, intense rainfall fell onto the denuded slopes, triggering floods and debris flows that carried ash, soil and boulders through the villages below. He explains that the dense volcanic slurry can carry boulders that floodwater alone could not move. As we walk, he points towards younger vegetation slowly reclaiming the mountainside, interrupted by erosion scars that cut through the slopes, exposing the unstable volcanic ground beneath.
Part way up the track, Giulia points towards a small cemetery below us on the hillside leading down to the sea. It contains the graves of those who died during a cholera outbreak. A little further on we pass an abandoned pizzeria. Tables and chairs remain arranged around the outdoor courtyard. It closed only recently after authorities determined that it was too close to the active summit.
Long before reaching the viewpoint the explosions become audible. Every six or eight minutes an explosion rolls across the mountain. Some sound like a gunshot and others like compressed thunder. The intervals soon become familiar. Conversation resumes before the next explosion interrupts it.
We remain overlooking the Sciara del Fuoco for an hour or so. Each explosion throws material above the crater terrace before it falls back across the upper slopes. A moment later the explosions reach us. Afterwards individual rocks strike the mountain before gathering into loose cascades that continue descending towards the sea. As daylight begins to fade the glowing fragments become easier to follow while the upper slopes slowly lose detail.
We begin walking back towards the village at dusk. Behind us another explosion briefly lights the summit. A moment later the sound reaches us, followed by rocks descending the Sciara del Fuoco.
By the time we return the village is completely dark. There are no street lights on Stromboli. We make our way home beneath the stars while, behind us, each explosion briefly lights the summit before darkness returns.
The Volcano
At 4.30am Leandro, Mario and I meet Renzo outside the Church of San Bartolo at the beginning of the trail. We have hired him to lead us to the four-hundred-metre lookout, the closest visitors are permitted to approach the crater terrace. A thin crescent moon provides little light. Beyond the church the path disappears into darkness. We switch on our torches and begin climbing.
Dense shrubs and tall stands of giant reed line the trail. Rough paving soon gives way to loose volcanic rock. Our torches reveal only the ground immediately ahead. Intermittently the sound of an explosion rolls across the upper slopes. The mountain can be heard long before it can be seen.
As we climb, Renzo tells us that the path was established following the release of Roberto Rossellini's Stromboli (1950). He attributes its construction to the parish priest, Don Antonio Di Mattina, who believed increasing numbers of visitors would come to the island to witness the volcano and encouraged the community to build a route to the summit.
Shortly after five o'clock the eastern horizon begins to brighten. The upper slopes slowly emerge from the darkness. The Sciara del Fuoco descends directly towards the sea in overlapping bands of black, grey and brown volcanic material. Fresh deposits lie across older surfaces while dense vegetation occupies the ridges beyond what Renzo describes as the line of cannon fire. The boundary between them is repeatedly redrawn by successive eruptions. Fine volcanic dust remains suspended above parts of the Sciara, softening the boundary between rock and air before gradually settling again. Goats move quietly amongst the shrubs before disappearing once more into the vegetation.
Ninety minutes after leaving the village we reach the lookout, approximately four hundred metres below the crater terrace. A simple timber barrier marks the edge of the path. Nearby rests a large volcanic bomb ejected during the eruption of 2003. In the early morning light it appears simply as another rock amongst many.
Leandro and I unpack the microphones while Mario continually repositions himself around the lookout, filming from different perspectives. For the next two hours my attention rarely leaves the crater terrace.
A plume of white gas rises above the crater terrace. For a moment nothing happens. A second later the explosion reaches us as a short, brittle crack. Several rocks appear briefly above the rim before disappearing from view. Moments later they can be heard descending the Sciara del Fuoco, each impact briefly revealing their position before they disappear again. Near the shoreline the impacts become more rapid as the rocks gather momentum, occasionally lifting fine volcanic dust into the air before ending with the distinct sound of a splash.
The sequence repeats throughout the morning, though never in quite the same way. Intervals remain broadly consistent at six to eight minutes, but the eruptions themselves vary considerably. Some are little more than sharp fractures. Others arrive as low, compressed bursts before ending abruptly. The larger events briefly occupy the entire sound field. Unlike thunder, which gradually dissipates, they possess little decay.
Watching the mountain over an extended period makes it easier to understand how it steadily rebuilds itself. Stromboli rarely stores pressure over long periods. Instead, volcanic gases escape repeatedly through four vents near the crater terrace, producing the persistent activity for which this style of eruption is known. Material projected into the air contributes to its gradual accumulation while other deposits descend the Sciara del Fuoco towards the sea. Construction and erosion occur simultaneously. The upper slopes resemble the accumulated record of successive eruptions rather than a single landform.
Earlier in the climb Renzo had compared the four vents to the stops of an organ. As the morning progresses the comparison becomes increasingly convincing. One consistently produces a short, brittle crack. Another generates a lower, broader burst. Others occupy positions somewhere between these extremes. Gradually I stop hearing explosions and begin distinguishing individual vents.
The sounds return me to Antarctica. Without seeing the mountain it would have been possible to mistake some of the sharper fractures for glaciers or icebergs calving in Antarctica. Both landscapes release accumulated energy across a remarkably similar acoustic range.
As the morning progresses I begin watching the plume as closely as I listen. Its shape and movement often anticipate the character of the eruption that follows. The brief delay between sight and sound gradually becomes less surprising than informative.
Towards the end of the session a light breeze begins moving through the giant reed below the lookout. Their dry stems introduce a continuous rustling beneath the eruptions. From somewhere below comes the occasional call of a goat. Between explosions, the engine of a fishing boat carries clearly across the water. Looking down, I can see it working just offshore beneath the Sciara del Fuoco while rocks continue descending towards the sea.
Shortly after eight o'clock we pack away the microphones and begin descending. Near the edge of the trail we pass once more the volcanic bomb we had walked by in the darkness earlier that morning. It has not moved. After watching and listening to the volcano for two hours, the force required to place it there is no longer difficult to imagine.
Ginostra
Leandro and I leave Stromboli by hydrofoil shortly after half past seven. As we round the western side of the island the landscape becomes increasingly volcanic. Black cliffs descend directly into the sea while deeply eroded gullies divide the mountainside into a succession of ridges and ravines. Dense vegetation blankets the slopes before giving way once more to exposed lava and fractured rock. There is little to suggest that people could inhabit such a landscape. Only occasionally do small terraces interrupt the mountainside before it resumes its steep descent towards the sea.
The hydrofoil enters the small harbour at Ginostra before easing alongside the jetty. Large concrete tetrapods protect the harbour from the open sea. Inside the harbour, water laps gently against the stone wall while a handful of fishing boats rest above the shoreline. Beyond the breakwater the sea is empty. Unlike Stromboli, there are no excursion boats arriving and departing, no swimmers and no movement beyond the occasional swell entering the harbour.
Stone steps rise immediately from the water. They climb without interruption before dividing into a network of narrow lanes that continue ascending the mountainside. There are no vehicles. Every movement occurs on foot. Everything required for daily life must be carried by hand along the same stone stairways.
At the top of the first flight of steps an electronic warning sign emits a continuous high-pitched tone. The sound remains audible as we continue climbing. Beyond it the village returns almost immediately to silence.
The volcano rises directly above the settlement, leaving only a narrow sequence of terraces between the sea and the steep volcanic slopes. The terrain appears almost impossibly abrupt. Dark lava outcrops, fractured cliffs and deeply incised gullies descend towards the shoreline while dense agave, prickly pear and coarse shrubs occupy almost every available surface. A thin plume occasionally rises beyond the ridge above the houses. The summit itself remains hidden from view. Distances appear deceptively short. Paths visible only a few terraces away require long climbs or descents before they can be reached.
White rendered buildings occupy whatever level ground can be found before giving way once more to stairs, retaining walls and cultivated gardens. Black volcanic stone forms walls, terraces and pathways that bind the settlement to the mountain. Level ground is rare. Steps, roofs, terraces and paths all follow the slope. The distinction between geological formation and construction is often slight. Retaining walls emerge directly from exposed lava while paths follow the contours of the mountain rather than imposing themselves upon it. Beyond the cultivated terraces the settlement gives way almost immediately to exposed lava, dense vegetation and deeply incised gullies.
The colour palette is restrained. Whitewashed walls sit among basalt stone, muted green vegetation and dry ochre grasses. Blue shutters and doors punctuate the terraces before disappearing once more among the gardens. Against them the sea and sky appear almost uniformly blue. In the hard morning light the contrast between white render and black lava leaves few intermediate tones.
The village alternates continually between enclosure and exposure. Narrow lanes compress the view to little more than stone walls, shaded entrances and cultivated gardens before opening unexpectedly onto the sea. From these points Panarea and the smaller islands appear suspended on the horizon while the harbour quickly disappears from sight. Every path either climbs or descends.
The underlying acoustics shift with the landscape. Insects dominate the vegetation while, somewhere beyond the gardens, a rooster calls intermittently. An awning catches the wind before falling still again. Without traffic, quieter sounds persist for longer than expected.
Inside the church footsteps reverberate across the stone floor before slowly dissolving into silence. The interior amplifies even the smallest movement. Outside, insects, wind and distant water once again occupy the village.
Near the centre of the settlement another warning system occupies an elevated position overlooking the surrounding houses. Its scale contrasts with the otherwise modest dimensions of the village. Together with the electronic warning sign near the harbour, the concrete harbour defences and the rockfall barriers fixed to the volcanic slopes above, it quietly acknowledges the hazards of living here.
As we descend towards the harbour the sound of the water becomes increasingly intricate. Small waves reflect repeatedly between concrete, volcanic stone and the harbour walls. Within the enclosed basin each reflection overlaps the next while metal grilles spaced across the concrete jetty resonate beneath our footsteps, producing a diffuse field of overlapping reflections before the sound dissolves back into the water. By now a few more people have emerged from the houses while a small number of visitors make their way towards the narrow black sand beaches below. Some swim among the volcanic rocks while others lie on the coarse concrete jetty where the concrete has been poured around lava outcrops.
The Sea
During the night the room occasionally shakes. I wake thinking the wind is pushing against the door. Opening it, I hear only the sea. The beach at Ficogrande lies just beyond the neighbouring houses. Waves break across the shoreline throughout the night.
Shortly after sunrise I leave the house and walk west towards Scari. The streets are rarely level. They rise and fall with the terrain, alternating between gentle gradients and steep climbs. Black volcanic sand blows across the paths from the beach. A plume rises from the summit above the rooftops. Throughout the day it shifts with the wind, changing between white and dark grey.
By the time I reach the harbour some of the fishing boats have already returned while others remain at sea. Boats lie alongside the jetty or have been pulled onto the working beach. Nets, ropes, floats and plastic crates are scattered between them. Several wooden boats rest high above the water on trailers waiting to be repaired before returning to sea. Piaggio Ape three-wheelers pass carrying fishing gear, gas cylinders, building materials and other supplies. Elsewhere flatbed trucks carry pallets of bottled water, drinks and groceries through the village after each ferry arrives. Small electric vehicles transport passengers through the narrow streets.
Fisherman Michele Cusolito tells me that many still navigate by accumulated experience rather than GPS or sonar. Currents, weather and the behaviour of birds remain sufficient to locate fish. Some of the wooden boats are more than seventy years old. They require continual maintenance and are less efficient than modern craft, yet remain in use as part of the island's maritime traditions. He says tourism has become more lucrative than fishing.
Before leaving I make several recordings around the harbour. Waves break across the shoreline as fine volcanic sand and rounded pebbles are drawn back through the surf, producing a prolonged sucking sound. Nearby a tractor pulls a fishing boat clear of the water while an outboard motor is repeatedly started, adjusted and tested.
As the morning progresses more people appear through the cafés, beach and streets. Their movement remains unhurried as conversations gradually become part of the island's sonic fabric.
Continuing east towards Punta Lena, the path gives way to fractured lava descending into the sea. A small rubber boat collects Giulia, Leandro and me before returning to a yacht anchored offshore.
As we leave the island the villages compress into a narrow band between the shoreline and the volcano.
North of Stromboli the Sciara del Fuoco descends directly into the sea. Several hundred metres offshore the engine is cut. The yacht begins drifting quietly towards the shoreline. I lower a pair of hydrophones beneath the surface while Leandro makes a directional recording of the explosions carrying down from the volcano.
As we drift closer, the underwater recordings become progressively louder. Fine crackling accumulates until individual sounds are no longer distinguishable. Before reaching the exclusion zone the engine is started again. We motor back out to sea before cutting it once more and repeating the drift.
Later we continue towards Strombolicchio. Rising almost vertically from the sea, its basalt cliffs expose the core of an older volcano from which Stromboli later emerged. A lighthouse occupies the summit, the only permanent structure on the rock. I lower the hydrophones again. The recordings change immediately. The dense crackling gives way to a broader acoustic space where individual movements briefly emerge before disappearing once more. Only a short distance separates the two locations.
One afternoon, returning from Ginostra, I find a tanker anchored just offshore from Ficogrande. Thick hoses extend from the ship across the water before disappearing into the village. People continue swimming nearby while others sit beneath umbrellas or outside the small café overlooking the beach. Later I learn it replenishes the island's freshwater supply. During summer the tanker arrives several times each week. Water is used sparingly. Drinking water is purchased separately.
Beyond the harbour the shoreline changes. Large concrete armour blocks line the coast where winter storms steadily erode the volcanic shore. Black sand and rounded lava stones collect between them while waves break against their edges before retreating through the gaps.
Each evening I walk back from the harbour as the light begins to fade. Boats rest on trailers beside reed fences and vacant lots. Shopfronts are closed. The plume remains visible above the village.
Later that night the room shakes again. A moment later I hear another explosion. Then only the sea.
Attunement
Behind Giovanni Anselmo's house an olive grove contains a compass constructed from volcanic stone. Four low walls align with the cardinal directions around a small volcanic hearth at its centre. From the terrace Stromboli dominates the horizon. Throughout the afternoon explosions sound intermittently above the summit.
The house stands opposite the Church of San Vincenzo, to which it once belonged. Whitewashed walls, curved forms and an unusually irregular plan reflect its former use for the production and storage of olive oil. Domed cisterns collect and store fresh rainwater. A dry torrent divides the property before descending towards the sea. Mud, volcanic stone and olive branches remain scattered across the grove where floodwaters overwhelmed the property following the 2022 eruption.
Marosi invites Leandro and me to present a site-responsive version of Geomorphologies within the compass. Developed during the previous week through fieldwork across Stromboli and Ginostra, the performance combines my stereo composition with Leandro's spoken text. The work remains an experiment shaped by the site in which it is presented.
Throughout his practice Anselmo returned repeatedly to energy, gravity, orientation and transformation. Rather than representing these forces, his works established conditions in which they could act directly upon materials, places and those who encountered them. The compass therefore does not simply provide a setting for the performance. It establishes the conditions within which sound, language and place momentarily converge before continuing beyond them.
As evening approaches people gather among the olive trees. Recordings gathered across the island return to the place from which they were made: volcanic eruptions, waves breaking against the shoreline, underwater currents, wind moving through reeds, harbour activity and the continual movement of the sea. Rather than describing these environments, Leandro's text reflects on naming, listening and continuation, proposing that places always exceed the words and images used to describe them. Listening becomes less an act of observation than a way of participating, however briefly, in processes already underway that will continue long after we have departed. Sound and language remain distinct yet become momentarily aligned within Anselmo's work. Beyond the grove Stromboli continues erupting at irregular intervals.
As the performance draws to a close, the recorded sea dissolves into the distant sea. Cicadas come into focus. The light no longer casts shadows.
The Red House
Several months before travelling to Italy I watched Roberto Rossellini’s Stromboli. By the time I arrived on the island the film had receded into memory, yet particular places remained. Ficogrande. Scari. The volcano. They were among the first locations I visited and shaped the fieldwork that followed.
On the first morning I walk the steep narrow path towards the red house near the Church of San Vincenzo, where Rossellini and Ingrid Bergman lived during the production of the film. The shutters are closed. The house is unoccupied. A marble plaque inscribed in Italian records its history.
During the following week I undertake fieldwork in and around Ficogrande, Scari, Strombolicchio and the volcano. Fishing boats leave the harbour before sunrise. Visitors gather beneath umbrellas at Ficogrande. Excursion boats drift beneath the Sciara del Fuoco. The lighthouse stands precariously above Strombolicchio. The volcano erupts at familiar intervals. These become the principal locations for my recordings.
One afternoon, towards the end of the fieldwork, I notice reproductions of the original Stromboli poster hanging in souvenir shops beside postcards, ceramics and fragments of volcanic stone. It is one of the last images I have of the island before departing for Salina.
A week after returning to Sydney I watch the film again. I am surprised by how raw life appears. Fishing offers little certainty. Houses are in ruins and seem almost empty. The glare is relentless. Australia is mentioned hopefully as somewhere beyond the island. Conversations return again and again to leaving.
The repeated cry of a baby barely registered the first time I watched the film. Now it returns throughout. Waves break across the shoreline. Fishing boats arrive and depart. Church bells. Regular eruptions.
I am most struck by Karin’s desperate attempt to cross the volcano towards Ginostra to escape the island. During the fieldwork I travelled there by hydrofoil. Standing in Ginostra, the scale of the volcano and the distance separating the two settlements became much clearer. The Sciara del Fuoco divides them. The sea remains the only practical route. The crossing appears almost futile.
Watching Stromboli again, the island and the film have become inseparable.