The great photographer remembered by Gisella Borioli, who, along with Flavio Lucchini, shared a life full of work, adventures, and friendship with him.

I met Oliviero Toscani when I was 21, and he was 24. I was already working at Condé Nast while continuing my studies, and he had recently graduated from the Kunstgewerbeschule in Zurich, where Flavio Lucchini, the great art director of Vogue, had discovered him. We were two young people ready for the incredible life awaiting us. Together with Flavio, who was both my and his mentor, we worked, traveled, challenged conventions, invented, photographed, published. We fell in love, got married, had children—and later, he had other loves and children—always sharing the emotions of life.
We met Agneta with little Olivia and Sabina, he was a witness at our wedding, and later we attended his with Kirsti. He took the first pictures of our newborn daughter Gaia, who, two years later, was playing with his little Rocco. We once gave him a rabbit in exchange for a horse that never arrived. For many years, we were an inseparable trio, then somewhat less so, but we always stayed close.
He was a co-conspirator in all our projects, from the most innovative magazines—Vogue, L’Uomo Vogue, Lei, Donna, Moda, Eva—to the Superstudio, where he was one of our most loyal clients; it was like home to him. An irreplaceable friend, we argued, made up, helped each other, supported one another, but never grew apart. We grew older without aging inside. Together, we encountered legendary figures who shaped the history of art: from Man Ray to Fellini, Picasso to Saint Laurent, Andy Warhol to Robert Rauschenberg, and countless others I can no longer recall. And, of course, all the major players in international fashion. Elio Fiorucci was our fourth musketeer, the one who was first to display and embrace the results of our explorations: cowboy jeans, military fashion, London punk, erotic lingerie, African prints, and Guatemalan folk skirts and blouses. Once, Oliviero wanted Elio to display a real horse in the shop window, but this time, he didn't oblige him.
With just a glance, Oliviero captured the essence of things and immortalized it with a click, breaking the rules and daring the unimaginable. With a laugh, he mocked those who didn’t understand—too bad for them.
Now, Oliviero is gone, and everyone recognizes his genius, even his detractors. Was he a provocateur? Absolutely. He told stories with images and provoked reactions that made people think. How many times did I defend him against those who threw stones of scorn or even hatred at him, unable to grasp his vision!
Illness struck him suddenly and harshly. Now we are all a little more alone—some without a friend, others without an adversary. In my book Gisella. Volevo essere felice (“Gisella: I Wanted to Be Happy”), which I just published, he is always present, unknowingly. I know that in his final days, my book was in his hands and brought him a bit of comfort. Thank you for everything, Oliviero.