Ferrari F40 — a scene that doesn’t exist yet

This started with an image I couldn’t shake.

A Ferrari F40 sitting somewhere it didn’t belong. Not abandoned, not displayed, just… there. Quiet. Out of context. And that contrast kept pulling at me.

I didn’t start with the base or the walls. I started with the car’s connection to the ground. The wheels had to be right, because if they weren’t, nothing else would matter. I printed the rims slowly, redid a couple of them, cracked some, adjusted small things most people would never notice. Tires came next. Too clean felt fake, too worn felt theatrical. I wanted them to look used, but cared for. Like someone who drives the car, not someone who forgot about it.

The background elements followed naturally. Barrels, I will use some of the reprinted wheels, small pieces that don’t draw attention to themselves but quietly explain where the car is. These things aren’t decoration. They’re clues. If they feel staged, the whole scene collapses.

At the same time, I started gathering materials for the base and the walls. This part is less visible but more important than it looks. The base can’t feel like a stand. It has to disappear. It has to feel like weight, like concrete, like something the car simply rests on without being presented. The walls need to carry marks, but not stories. Too clean and they look fake. Too damaged and they start talking louder than the car.

That’s where things slow down. Printing is the easy part. The real work starts when you have to decide where to stop. Where the wear ends. Where it’s left alone. How much dirt is enough before it becomes a statement instead of a consequence.

Light is already on my mind, even though nothing is built yet. Not studio light, not dramatic light. Just the kind of light that exists in places like this. The kind that falls unevenly and doesn’t care what it highlights.

I’m not trying to recreate the reference image exactly. That would be safe, and safety usually kills life. I want this to feel like a moment that existed before anyone looked at it. Like you walked into a space and found the scene already there, unchanged by your presence.

Right now, the diorama isn’t real yet. What exists are parts, materials, and a direction. But this is the point where it starts becoming something more than a collection of objects. Every decision from here on removes other possibilities, and that’s fine. That’s how it should be.

This isn’t about reaching a final image. It’s about letting the scene settle into something honest. Something that doesn’t explain itself. Something that just is.

That’s where I am right now.

And that’s enough for today.