They say every journey, no matter how epic, chaotic, or beautiful, has an end. Not necessarily a tragic end, but simply a destination. For thirty years, my life was perpetual motion: airports, hotels, light filtering through strange blinds, and, above all, faces. I had the privilege of capturing beauty in its rawest and most elegant state, traveling the world searching for that fraction of a second where light and skin agree to create something eternal. It was an incredible journey. I enjoyed every damn second of it.
But the body—that vehicle we sometimes treat as if it were indestructible—has its own maps and its own borders.
Fifteen years ago, a doctor told me about an invisible inheritance: Dupuytren’s contracture, also known as “Viking Disease.” Back then, my hands were perfect, steady, capable of holding a camera for more than eight hours without complaint. It sounded like a Norse legend, something distant. But the Vikings have finally made landfall. Over the last two years, my hands began to close, contracting into themselves. Today, holding a camera, cooking for those I love, writing, or even editing an image has become a difficult and painful battle that I can no longer ignore.
Yesterday, the hand surgeon was brutally clear. The solution is, at best, temporary. I can undergo corrective surgery on both hands or try a treatment with an experimental drug. But this is where reality hits you head-on: the insurance won’t cover it because it’s “experimental,” and each application costs $5,000. Five thousand dollars each shot for a patch that, being a genetic condition, guarantees nothing in the long run. The problem will return. DNA does not negotiate.
This situation has forced me into an early retirement. It’s not a romantic choice; it’s a surrender to reality. Between the health of my hands and the delicate situation of my loved Sharon, the horizon has completely shifted. I need to rethink how we will face this new stage of our lives. Many scenarios cross my mind, including emigrating once again to a place where our pension allows us to live with the comfort and dignity we’ve earned after so many decades of work, as unfortunately, that would not be possible in our beloved country.
Make no mistake: this is not a final goodbye. This is a notice that I’ll be off the radar for a while. I need to recover the functionality of my hands and discover who I will be when I no longer have a lens between the world and me.
Thank you. Infinite thanks for having accompanied me on this journey, for letting me into your lives through my photos, and for the continuous support throughout these three decades. Now, I’m going to have some mates, watch the sunset, and think about the next chapter.
See you down the road.
Alex
©2026 Copyright Alex Manfredini
