THE TROTTING COWBOY

Michele Rossetti Director/Creative Director. Born in Milan on 25 July 1993, Ital/American raised in a family of Artists on Lake Maggiore, he goes back to Milan to pursue his studies as an actor, illustrator and singer, after working on various projects he moved to Rome for a while to learn how to combine everything he has learned to become a Director and Art Director, he came back to found Vasta to pursue his dream of bringing original stories to life.

[thetrottingcowboy]

Basil the mouse Detective for carneval this year.

[thetrottingcowboy]

Going back to Phosphoros City, fitting like a glove. Mind you: pretty, petty asparagus, buttered dinner. Paris burns like a fleeting banner. Mind the gap, pray like a sinner. I spit back at the reading club, lush on your tongue, to old friends like Kofi Annan, telling stories just for fun. I might let your thoughts go blind. Cavalry, mesmerizing. Karma dashboards, firefighters, tall tales for a grand crusade. Exoskeleton, Megatron, megatone. Bon voyage to the Trotting Cowboy, The trotter got a new name to yell. At “clinique iconique” He launches himself off to Paris, I try to focus on new memories, bargaining with devil of wood—trading splinters for a form that won’t collapse. Now and then I reverse time, leaving legacy and loophole hanging by a hair; with that devil in my hair, I can do nothing but try to understand at least one thing in this narrow span of life.

We’ll meet again in a few moons, like that old Tarkovsky interview kept drilling into my mind, teaching me moral science on how time can be carved rather than spent, how patience becomes a moral act. It accompanies my state between sleep and wakefulness like Momo, king of dreams, Momo of vigilance. Down there, the quarry of your dream is immortal. We’ll scent each other again on the return, on another life. The home is gone, but the house is new.

Cheerish your new name.

[thetrottingcowboy]

Il campo Marianne mirage shot by Michele Rossetti

Sifting through with magnifying lenses and strumming the strings of grass, the fields of Emilia Romagna turned into a skating rink of earth. I gave meaning to my best outfit and once again had the honor of entering Marianne’s mind-home. But this time, it was a real home, not just a metaphorical one.

Every time I mentally interview the artists I encounter, it’s a pleasure. But getting to know their scarlet worlds through their glassy eyes fascinates me even more.

Together with her producer and partner Marquis, we feasted in celebration of curiosity, indulging in meaningful food and important drinks. I also had the pleasure of meeting her lovely parents, elves with wide-open eyes and the childlike curiosity of those raised gathering figs and walking diagonally across perpendicular fields.

When I first heard the song “Il campo” (The Field), I was enchanted and wanted to know more. The field, for a landlocked sailor like me, is like the sea for a mermaid widow of a foggy lighthouse.

Marianne suggested we shoot the photos right where she grew up, behind her house, where tamed fields let old bicycles swim undisturbed, where rabbits dart to and fro, and where chickens play hide-and-seek with fate. When we arrived, Anna’s geese raised their voices in bark-like cries, forgetting that Marianne, with her swan song, could rival even the wildest and most unruly roosters. I was no less fierce. Raised on Lake Maggiore, I made a dance move, and the confused geese scattered, speckled and flustered.

Anna, the elderly woman the song speaks of, seemed like a child wearing a mask of wrinkles. Her back curved diagonally, her legs standing straight like the lines of a football formation or an architectural tool. But this team is led by her alone. She conducts an orchestra of animals and timid creatures.

Anna still works to this day, even though dear Aldo no longer walks the fields. Yet his presence lingers, like the ghostly clanking of his old tractor echoing in the distance.

Anna smiles and hides, but the beauty of the wrinkled tunnels across her face only deepens the curiosity of a trotting cowboy like me.

That day, Marianne wasn’t in the mood to pose. We all have those moments. But luckily, she agreed to go and see what might unfold. Il campo is something tangible, real, visceral. A sweet lullaby, not to fall asleep to, but to wake up with—like the cooing of doves, the bickering of swallows, the tip-tap of cicadas.

Marianne climbs onto her rustic, hybrid, two-legged bicycle with Marquis, and they disappear into the horizon. Perhaps it was a tribute to Anna and her Aldo, fading together into the sunlight, backlit at the edge of the day.

[thetrottingcowboy]

License to Nonsense

the Trotting cowboy.

The conspicuous installation of opinions along the borders of my mental pouch. On that hill, as many horses died as were ever born. A director always interviews, nothing more than a journalist with tubular eyes, narrowed upon the figure under interrogation. Everything is a barbaric invasion, a varicolored, eccentric glimpse toward salvation. I will never ride a helicopter; I will never explore underground caverns. The fur hat does not help facing narrow slits. His hair was comical, three-dimensional. I was fed to the dancing ostriches. I do not know how to pilot helicopters; I offered my hand with only four fingers.

What are those bickering things that we want? Goodbyes. I remember the shores of a foreign lake I call home.

In the center of the Island of the Cormorants, there is a glass eye. Among the castles of royal families, after a picnic game of hide-and-seek, I found the bracelet with the vitreous gaze.

The King of the Cormorants took away the pretext — my complaints against humanity. It only took a plastic beer ring to strangle him.

What are the reasons for such recklessness? Ice is made from water. Excuses from patience.

The king does not forgive, nor does the island where opposition men, regiments, and regents of religious betrayal were once beheaded.

Don’t wait up for me. I’m in a phone booth, defacing the silver moon with another one. Maybe the call will last long enough to apologize to the Prince of the Cormorants. The bracelet was a fraud.

All in, the most exclusive cartridges go into the dream of creation, with a gaze both playful and severe — like Roger Rabbit’s cowboy bullets. I shoot myself without taking my life; I insert myself and press my Adam’s apple to launch.

The license to infer — a license for nonsense. To the centuries, till Sunday. Where boundaries unfold at the edge of unspeakable horizons.

And like nothing, all those dreams folded in reverse, where I was fed to the dancing ostriches. I offered them my hand, and came back with only four fingers.

A price to pay to the magic man, the sword collector, the incipit of contemplations. A birding nest, the kindest blow, and mindful expectations. The suspicious mouse gathering death wishes for gatekeeping cheese.

By these vows, I made these self-portraits.

While the clicks come from beer openers thundering in the Galloway church fridge postcards beneath Jimmy’s sun — and knowing damn well that after them will come the clanks — I hurl my back, skipping through my shoulders, hopping like circled stones.

Shielding myself with building scales, shrinking ribs traveling to my downtown lungs, drinking while driving my thoughts uninvited, running down your tale when you cross my mind.

No metronome has a second clack after the click; the clock keeps only a tack after the tip. Falling from the kitchen counter, from the prettiest to the prettiest, I recompose those cans — my coping mechanism galloping in hope for Saturn’s forgiveness.

A hot-take lull, gazing at the horizon, and then, as promised: that clank. If Tip Tap were shy, it would never ask for tips. Realigning my neck, I beg you that pardon. I really do.

I want to create, create and devote myself, projecting with a gaze both playful and severe. The license to infer, a license for nonsense. To survive through what we were bullied for as children, to make of it not a shield but a silk robe, comfortable for the day of the sleeping infinite. I don’t have a license — I fly only with invisible ideas.

Boundaries unfold at the edge of unspeakable horizons, in the conspicuous installation of opinions along the borders of my mental pouch. On that hill, as many horses died as were ever born.

A director is always an interviewer — nothing more than a journalist with tubular eyes, narrowed upon the figure under interrogation. Everything is a barbaric invasion, a varicolored, eccentric glimpse toward salvation.

I will never ride a helicopter; I will never explore underground caverns. The unusual brings no comfort before narrow slits. His hair was comical — three-dimensional, like a dream folded in reverse. I was fed to the dancing ostriches.

And so he is the magic man, the sword collector, the incipit of contemplations. A birding nest, the kindest blow, and mindful expectations. The suspicious mouse gathering death wishes for gatekeeping cheese.

-the trotting cowboy-

[thetrottingcowboy]

ETRO SS25 MAN CAPSULE - A Vasta film

SS25 MAN CAPSULE – Vasta

Between wooden beams and ancient marble, inside a villa escaping the sweltering heat of the outside world, young people dance freely, watched by a curious eye.

CREW

Directed byMichele Rossetti

& Mattia Chicco

DOPMattia Chicco

Executive ProducerEleonora Denegri

Production AssistantGiulia Panzacch

Shooting and Production ManagerAlessandra Migliorati

Digital Pr ManagerAntonio Guastella

Graphic SeniorLucila Pieres

Creative DirectorArthur Le Boulicaut

PhotographyMark Rabadan

1st Lighting AssistantMattia Pastore

2nd Lighting AssistantMarco Martino

StylistAlice Maiolini

Stylist AssistantChiara Buccelli

DresserCinzia Forloni

Carlotta Coletti

Sonia Rotta

SeamstressCristina Antognazzi

GroomerAlessia Bonotto

Make up AssistantSofia Fogliera

Nail ArtistLaura Gargioni

STARRING

Aleksander

Grezgord

Sanoussy

[thetrottingcowboy]

BALLANTYNE SS25 CAMPAIGN 25 a Vasta Film

SS25 CAMPAIGN – Vasta

[thetrottingcowboy]

All in, the most exclusive cartridges go into the dream of creation, with a gaze both playful and severely knowing — like Roger Rabbit’s cowboy bullets. I shoot myself without taking my life; I insert myself and press my Adam’s apple to launch.

The license to infer — a license for nonsense. To the centuries, till Sunday. Where boundaries unfold at the edge of unspeakable horizons. That of a director is just the work of a journalist of fake news, with tubular eyes narrowed upon the figure under interrogation. Everything then becomes stoic — a barbaric invasion, a varicolored inversion, an eccentric glimpse toward the news of salvation.

And like nothing, all those dreams folded in reverse, where I was fed to the dancing ostriches. I offered them my hand, and came back with only four fingers.

A price to pay to the magic man, the sword collector, the incipit of contemplations. A birding nest, the kindest blow, and mindful expectations. The suspicious mouse gathering death wishes for gatekeeping cheese.

By these vows, I made these self-portraits.

The trotting cowboy.

[thetrottingcowboy]

In a dull meeting room, where words lose meaning, he slips away into a world of strange poetry. A water-bearer, a squire in some silent war of hippodromes, where warped chests mirror drifting asteroids just past morning light.

He’s tangled his toad-soul, leaping fences with a scalp in hand. When asked what he’ll become, he says, “A quiet meditator.” But anxiety has learned to play piano with its toes—each foot hiding two coins, just in case.

If death comes, let someone place them on his eyes. Let him be the oar, the stroke, the trembling raft across the Styx.

A man escaping boredom with myth, stitching symbols in the silence.

[thetrottingcowboy]

And from the slumber, I shall come again.

That’s the headline in the District Bamboo Gazette of News— Big man, big letters, big titles: The croc is back on crack.

These are telltales, stranded in wonder, echoing to distract the old wives of economy, Dribbling through melancholy and bickering, A relentless susseguirsi di noise.

Imagine the distraction— A scene to be: a croc on crack, While the world collapses. Back to the sewers they go— Play the trumpet, dear ugliness.

And from the slumbers, I shall come back again.

-thetrottingcowboy-

[thetrottingcowboy]

the sea lion cave.

So profound, so enigmatic, so perilously intoxicating—adrift upon the jagged precipice of fate, I unearthed mezcal and found myself within the yawning maw of the Sea Lion Cave. I relinquished my grasp, surrendered to the tide; I forged that disc, now subsumed into the grand continuum. The iridescent scales of the fish embellish the barn unshackled by doors. A procession of anesthetic specters, of gilded merchants peddling the echoes of squandered opulence.

-The trotting cowboy-

[thetrottingcowboy]

IL MAGO DEL GELATO - CHI E' NICOLA FELPIERI – Vasta

IL MAGO DEL GELATO – CHI E’ NICOLA FELPIERI

We wanted to create a journey that was a bit of an incursion into a parallel world, where the crime genre and the surreal blend with humor. The concept was born by listening to the music of Mago del Gelato, and imagining how it could serve as the soundtrack for an adventure that merges 70s noir cinema with grotesque and surreal elements. The Lancia Delta, which almost becomes a character in itself, is the vehicle that takes the band into a world suspended between reality and parody. We decided to use vintage lenses to capture the atmosphere of that era and immerse the viewer in a Milan that, while historically rich, is reinterpreted with a cinematic twist. The idea of Felpieri as a Bond villain embedded in his bunker-club was one of our first insights—an enigmatic character that stands out in mystery, evoking both tension and a slight irony.

For us, it was a true team effort, where music, set design, and characters are all part of a narrative that needs to be experienced in motion, as if the video were a long chase between reality and fiction. In a way, the music video became the film we envisioned, and it was exciting to create a story that intertwines with the music that accompanies every scene.

IL VIAGGIO - THE TRIP

This wasn't just an adventure for the characters, but for us as well. It was a lived-in music video, in the truest sense of the word. We traveled the road alongside the band, with crazy hours, bad weather, and inhospitable environments where sometimes we couldn't even find a sandwich to eat. Every day was a challenge, but if the Lancia Delta never gave up, neither could we. We pushed ourselves just like the characters did, and in the end, all the hard work paid off.

The story we told intertwined with our experience on set, creating a deep connection between reality and fiction. It was as if we were part of the journey with the characters, living the same struggles, but also sharing the same laughs and victories. Every single moment of the shoot was like a piece that made the final result even more meaningful.

CREW

A Film byVasta

Written and Directed byMichele Rossetti & Mattia Chicco

Produced byVastafilm

Director of PhotographyMattia Chicco

Art DirectionMichele Rossetti

1st Assistant CameraChristopher Di Stefano

GafferGiovanni Baracchi

Make-up & HairCaterina Camera

LabelSony Music / Numero Uno

A&RRocco Rinetti

ManagementLoris Giroletti, Gioele Accongiagioco

STARRING

Nicola Felpieri

Alessandro Paolone

Ferruccio Perrone

Pietro Gregori

Giovanni Doneda

[thetrottingcowboy]

The timid stamp of unease reigns supreme with a kiss, and after a leap, it shatters to the sound with great disdain. I read the lip giggling of the king of storks, he who wears his face the sneer of a foretold victory. He is an insolent, universal bickerer.  I refuse, I devolve, retreating into the belly of the big jazzy ball of dirt, behind the scenes, into the implausible. Kerosene will once again taste of rattles and royal bonfires, when warmth was warmth and cold was cool.  I refuse, I devolve into big jazzy ball of dirt.

The trotting cowboy

[thetrottingcowboy]

NOT MY MUSE – Vasta

Latest work for Next Gen magazine

Written and Directed by me & Mattia Chicco Starring Tommaso Donadoni Next Gen Team Editor in Chief Federico Poletti Deputy Editor in Chief & Head of Editorial Content Giulia Cangianiello Producer & Social Media Martina Peraro Stylist Simone Folli Executive Producer Romina Piperno Grooming Cotril Styling Assistants Nadia Mistri Miriam Capelli Francesco Pontecorvo Asia Nanti Production Assistant Petra Caravaggio

A simple phone call becomes a poetic exploration of love and denial. A young woman confides in her friend, pouring out her conflicted feelings about a man who is both her inspiration and her frustration. Through playful irony and tender observations, she attempts to convince herself that he’s far from the ideal muse she seeks.

The visual narrative interweaves vibrant "red" and "green" flags, each revealing subtle quirks and imperfections of the man. From his slurping of instant ramen to his earnest yet misplaced belief in his basketball dreams, every detail paints a vivid, humorous portrait.

Set against the soft light of a modest room, the camera captures moments of his everyday life—his neatness, his emotional depth, his playful antics with a dog, and even his tendency to wear sunglasses indoors. Each scene is a testament to his humanity, his contradictions, and ultimately, her struggle to distance herself from her growing affection.

Through a rhythm of gentle mockery and sincere admiration, she lists his flaws, hoping to find solace in his unsuitability. Yet, with each description—his golden retriever eyes, his old soul charm, his artistic tendencies—her true feelings seep through.

In the end, as he casually winks at the camera, the story leaves us questioning: Is he truly not her muse, or is he precisely the muse she needs, even if she can’t admit it?

[thetrottingcowboy]

Wearing a classic tuxedo and a shaggy camel coat, sent directly from London by a friend, I felt like a bristly modern-day Nosferatu, braving the night’s chill and the playful, ominous shadows. I enchanted my faithful companion, my camera, to capture this theatrical reportage. Or perhaps the enchantment was mine, bestowed by Marianne, the Artist, and Marquis, the Producer, who, like characters from an ancient fairy tale, live this musical story as a duo of magical beings. Or perhaps they were more like enchanting chefs—after they served me a delicious risotto and dates dipped in fresh cheese by a warm fireplace in my proud cottage-castle on Lake Maggiore, they first captivated my palate and then seized my ears, drawing me into their live music performance.

This is what I witnessed, and like in a waltz, little texts intertwine beneath my shots, reflecting on this album that I had the pleasure of hearing in advance. But now you can listen to it too, because Teatro is already available on Spotify.

I am The Trotting Cowboy, and I wish you a wonderful reading.

The Trotting Cowboy traverses time and space on a journey through realms of imagination, capturing enchanting stories of cosmic strangers.

[thetrottingcowboy]

In my most sincere moments, I cast my gaze upon the sky, and with my fingers, I digest the hawks—errant, predatory creatures. Who reigns at the pinnacle of the food chain? We call it thus, a chain, undeniable and immutable, inescapable. The fate of the devoured, much as Maslow once etched the symbols and senses of economy and primal needs in his pyramid—now evolved over time—I too find a shift within the food chain. Has sustenance now become the consumption of attention? We feast on smoke, wheezing and puffing like horses at the dawn of dew-drenched moors. What reflections arise in this moment? Raise your hands and devour the hawks, casting dreams like a shadow puppet, the face of a dog. Close your eyes; the perspective alone is enough.

The fate of the devoured.

2/2

I find myself suspended between latitude and longitude, immersed in solitude. Amidst the four cardinal points of my childhood, I recollect the tumbles and shattered knees upon this monolithic expanse of granite—an anthology of unspoken histories, those unnoticed and forgotten. When the secret places of our youth remain shrouded in mystery, they are woven from these very memories. My primal need is the survival of an inner art, that it may not wither nor betray me to the monotony of habit. A cryptic fulcrum, Kinsky once proclaimed, "Leaders of the church, politicians, and men of power. I am not your superstar. First, remove the beam from your eye, and only then will you see clearly enough to remove the speck from mine." I refuse to lose the cardinal axis, a center of perpetual gravity, though one that is unlike any other, serious, made of marble & stones. To remind myself to forget. Opinions can and will always change with age.

[thetrottingcowboy]

The trotting cowboy

[thetrottingcowboy]

Nocturna.

Deceitful gaze of good intentions.

Shot by @thetrottingcowboy