This story originally appeared on the Gents Cafe Newsletter. You can subscribe here.
After biting him in his childhood years, the bug for cars never left Guido Bonarelli – a Marketing and Communications Specialist based in Milan, Italy. Every time an interesting vehicle catches his eye, he can’t help snapping a picture for his Instagram profile, and wondering what its story could be.
When a friend found out about this broad archive of car pictures, shot all across the globe, he convinced Guido to turn it into a printed book, collecting years of travels and explorations. Titled “The Impossible Garage”, it is the coronation of a spontaneous passion project, and even lead to some unexpected encounters with some of the cars’ owners…
Who’s Guido, besides being the author of this book, and what are your passions apart from cars and photography?
In my day-to-day life, I work as a marketing director and communications consultant. Right now, I’m working with an automotive group and a publishing group, but the heart of my career has always been rooted in creativity. I started out in advertising, working as an art director in different agencies, and studied communication. Eventually, I found myself in the marketing department at Ferrero, where we were developing campaigns for emerging markets – which led me to explore other cultures and understand that the message doesn’t work the same way everywhere.
After a few years, I ended up working in television, and the creative side of me evolved into a more strategic marketing role. I had to become more technical, but I quickly found my way back to creativity, getting involved in media planning. I was working for a well-established publishing group, which gave me the opportunity to collaborate with some of the best creatives and designers on an international level.
That experience brought me back to the visual side of creativity and advertising, and that’s really where my passion for photography, shoots, commercials, and TV content was reignited. Visual storytelling has always been part of who I am. And honestly, the book came together almost by accident. I’ve always had a passion for traveling. I’m the kind of person who, the moment I arrive in a new city, steps out of the hotel and just gets lost – then takes a cab back later. That’s how I like to explore, with curiosity leading the way.
What sparked your interest for cars? Was it a family passion?
Cars have always been a passion of mine. While other kids in my class were reading Topolino, I was flipping through Quattroruote. I never even owned a single issue of Topolino – I only ever wanted car magazines. When I was sick as a kid, my mom would bring me any auto magazine she could find – it made me happy. And my father, who traveled a lot for work, would bring back magazines from abroad, even ones in German. I didn’t understand a word, but I would pore over the photos and focus on the details. That stuck with me – so much so that even now, when I watch a movie and there’s a driving scene, I’ll immediately say, “That’s a Mercedes,” and then wait for the camera to pan just to confirm I was right.
I think this passion also came from my two grandfathers, both of whom loved cars and were children of the postwar economic boom – back when coachbuilt cars were still a thing. Just to give you an idea, my paternal grandfather used to order his cars by choosing the exact bodywork he wanted. He was a true enthusiast, constantly buying, selling, and switching cars. When you grow up in that kind of environment, I guess it’s only natural to develop a love for cars.
What does a car represent for you?
Lately, unfortunately, my passion for cars has changed quite a bit. I used to be much more open-minded – I could get excited about all kinds of models, even ones that weren’t particularly rare or powerful. In fact, the book doesn’t filter anything based on exclusivity: you’ll find a Fiat Uno, a Renault 4, a Beetle… Nowadays, though, I feel like the car industry has become, in many ways, overly rational. When it comes to more accessible cars, I find fewer and fewer things that truly capture my interest.
There used to be so many more fascinating vehicles. Thinking back to my childhood, for instance, my mom had a brown A112 Abarth – it was an amazing little car. The Y10 was revolutionary at the time, with a design unlike anything else.
I think that spark has disappeared – not necessarily because of the car companies, which are actually navigating a really tough moment – but because the consumer and the market have changed. It’s not that cars have gotten worse; it’s that the whole context is different. To me, a car is no longer a status symbol. Cars today have become a symbol of how much things have changed – too much, in fact, for me to still feel that emotional connection.
How would you describe “The Impossible Garage” to those who don’t know the project?
“The Impossible Garage” is, first and foremost, an object. I never had the ambition to call myself a photographer or a writer. The book doesn’t follow a linear or traditional narrative: the only thing I really wanted to do was to bring into it something completely random – the locations, the moments the photos were taken, the models of the cars.
There isn’t a chapter for sedans, one for convertibles, or one for off-road vehicles. I wanted the book to reflect the same sense of spontaneity I experienced when I came across these cars – most of which, by the way, I never actually went looking for.
The book is the outcome of years of travels and images. When did you start shooting these pictures?
I started about 15 years ago, back when phone cameras weren’t nearly as sharp as they are today. At the time, whenever I traveled, I always made sure I had a way to take pictures – not necessarily of cars, just of things I liked. I used digital cameras which, for that era, were pretty advanced.
The oldest photos I have are probably from 2011 or 2012, and most of them were taken in Los Angeles and Malibu, during a trip when I had brought a DSLR. Then, as phone cameras evolved, I started shooting with my phone as well.
When did you realise your image collection deserved to be something more than a personal archive?
I always took photos just for myself – I never really thought about making a book. At most, I might have posted them on Instagram, though even that came along later. I used to just upload them to my personal profile, mixed in with “normal” pictures.
The moment the idea of the book was born was when my computer broke down, and I recovered all the photos I had stored in the cloud. That’s when my friend Filippo Ferrari, a journalist at Rolling Stone and the author of the book’s introduction, saw the photos. After teasing me a bit about how “nerdy” my approach was, he helped me realize that – despite not being professional shots – those images actually made up a proper photography project. Another friend, Alessandro Cavallini, took care of the graphic design and helped me select around 250 photos from an archive of more than a thousand.
As for the title, it came from a random encounter in a bar in Milan, years ago. Someone I didn’t know asked me if I was the guy with “all those cars.” He said he recognized me because he followed me on Instagram and had seen the photos I posted. I thanked him but explained that none of the cars were actually mine – owning all of them would’ve been impossible, especially since the photos were taken all over the world: Berlin, Madrid, California…
That idea of impossibility stuck with me. So, when the book finally started to take shape and I needed a title, I thought of The Impossible Garage – because, in a way, it really was a utopian garage. Without knowing it, that guy – whom I never kept in touch with (I wonder if he still follows me) – ended up inspiring the title.
Every car you photographed tells a unique story. Is there a common thread linking them, or did you just select them instinctively?
For me, it’s essential to have a well-defined side shot – clean and sharp – something that can tell a story about the car or the person driving it. I want every photo to convey something, whether it’s an iconic model or something more personal and unique.
For instance, there’s a Subaru E12 I photographed in a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. It took me a long time to figure out the name of that car, but once I did, it was incredibly satisfying – it opened up a whole new world for me.
Then there are the shots I’ve taken in the U.S., where it’s completely normal, culturally, for cars to rack up hundreds of thousands of miles. Those vehicles tell incredible stories – you can read it all in the wear and tear, you just know they’ve been through a lot.
Or there’s the ’70s Land Cruiser I spotted in the heart of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I couldn’t help but think: who drives a car like that in a place like this? It had to be someone with a deep, visceral connection to that vehicle – someone who’s cared for it over the years, even in a tough area like that, almost right behind a favela.
And then there are the ’80s Mercedes S-Classes in Beverly Hills. Out there, those cars are as common as Fiat Puntos are here. But I kept wondering: who used to ride in those cars? Back in the ’80s, those S-Classes were everywhere in Beverly Hills, and it’s wild to think about the level of affluence those models represented – so different from what we see today.
Did you ever meet the owner of a car while shooting it, and learn the actual history of that vehicle?
Funnily enough, something rather curious has happened to me – twice, actually. I’ve never run into the owners of the cars at the moment I was photographing them, but after the book came out, a couple of people recognized their own cars.
The first time was with an electric blue Bentley Continental GT, a stunning car I had shot in Milan. I gave a copy of the book to a friend, and months later he called me saying, “You won’t believe this – I was showing your book to a friend, and he said that car is his!” That’s how I ended up meeting the owner: a true car enthusiast and a really great person. It was such a lovely connection.
The second time happened in Piedmont, in a picturesque little town called Ottiglio, in the Monferrato region. I had photographed a Mercedes E-Class 200 Cabrio, another absolute gem. I call it “Triple Blue” because it had a blue body, a blue soft top, and blue interiors… incredibly elegant. A friend of mine, who’s a doctor, had left a copy of the book in his waiting room. One day, a patient flips through it and says, “Hey, that’s my car!” So my friend put us in touch – he lives between Piedmont and Milan, but we still haven’t managed to meet in person. As soon as we do, I’m definitely giving him a copy of the book – he absolutely deserves it.
Is there a picture in the book that you particularly like? And if so, why?
There are actually quite a few that move me, each for different reasons. Two of them are special because they feel like home – one is a Mini Cooper S, a car I really loved. Like all things that give you trouble, you end up getting even more attached to them, and anyone who knows that model will understand: the R56 suffered many sorts of engine issues… and I went through them all! But still, it gave me so much back. Despite everything, it was a car I truly cared for.
The other one is, in a way, a funny car: a Volkswagen Porsche 914. My dad bought it over twenty years ago, but never really showed it much love. Every now and then I try to treat it – buying spare parts, doing little mechanical fixes – just to bring it back to its former glory. But there’s no convincing him.
Then there’s a Beetle I shot in Naxos, Greece, back in 2017. It looked like it had been placed there just for me – sitting alone on a pier, perfect light, a boat in the background… one of those things that only happens once. That photo made me feel really lucky.
And finally, there’s one that truly left me speechless. I was traveling through Luang Prabang, deep in the forests of Laos, in the middle of August, with this overwhelming humidity – and suddenly, I came across a 1960s Mercedes E-Class, kept in immaculate condition. I thought: how did this car end up here? In the middle of nowhere, in the heart of Laos… In moments like that, how can you not wonder what story lies behind a car like that, in a place like that?
After publishing the book, you kept on shooting and sharing the new images on your Instagram profile. Do you plan to publish a second book?
One of the nicest things about this project is that it managed to resonate with people who aren’t necessarily into cars. I think it’s because the book doesn’t really fit into a specific category – it’s not a photography book, or a car book, or a travel book. And given the positive feedback I’ve received, I’m actually thinking about putting out a “Version Two” – not necessarily a brand-new book, but a revised version of this one, incorporating some of the suggestions I’ve received along the way.
The piece of advice I appreciated most – and would definitely follow – is to structure the book into chapters, maybe grouping together sedans, SUVs, convertibles… something that makes it more digestible from a publishing point of view. Even though, I’ll admit, I was really attached to the randomness of the images. That complete lack of structure was important to me – it reflected the feeling of constant discovery I experienced while shooting.
This “Version Two” would inevitably include a few more photos, too, because I’ve never really stopped taking pictures. And I’m glad I haven’t – because I’ve realized how much this can connect people. I’ve sent copies of the book to every corner of the world, even to people I’ve never met in person and only know through Instagram.
For instance, there’s this one user I talk to exclusively about BMWs – he lives in California, and I sent him the book. And he’s just one of at least fifty people I’ve mailed a copy to, simply because of these social media connections. I think that’s one of the most beautiful parts of the whole project.
Your book has an uncommon binding, and breaks some traditional rules of publishing: why?
From the very beginning, the idea behind the book was to create something that stood outside the rules of traditional publishing. Normally, a spine is a must – it helps identify the book when it’s on a shelf in a bookstore. But I had this exhibition catalog at home that was bound in a slightly unusual way – sort of like a Japanese-style binding – and I’d always loved it. So I thought: why not?
It felt like a great way to create an object that was, physically, something different from a conventional book. These days, you can actually find other publications with that kind of binding, so it’s not completely unheard of… but it’s still unusual enough to make it feel special.
I also went with a thick, weighty cover, just to give it more presence. In the end, I was really happy with how it turned out – both as an object and with the whole context that formed around it.
What was the most unexpected takeaway from this editorial process?
What struck me the most was realizing – only after the fact – just how much of myself I put into this. The interesting thing is that, paradoxically, I think this project reveals far more about who I am than many other things I’ve done in my life. Because, at the end of the day, it was born out of pure passion, and that makes it deeply personal and honest.
That’s probably the most beautiful and unexpected part of it all: that through such a “small,” personal project, people got to know me better. Even friends I’ve had for twenty or thirty years – people who’ve known me forever – never would’ve expected something like this from me. And yet, here we are.
There’s also the fact that it’s not a book you can buy in a bookstore: only people who received it as a gift have it. And that makes it a very personal gesture. That’s when you see the most beautiful, unexpected reactions – surprise, curiosity, emotion. Those reactions are priceless. So if I had to pick the most unexpected part of all this, it’s definitely that.
