Archipelago

My creative process is like an archipelago.

There is no plan.
No predefined scenario, no invisible storyboard that precedes my images. My photographic work follows neither a strict method nor a production logic. It unfolds like an archipelago: through fragments, through successive emergences. A first image appears. It doesn’t respond to any internal command; it presents itself, like an apparition. At times, it imposes itself—gently, yet insistently, like a quiet obsession. Then another image comes along, one that connects—not by meaning, nor by subject—but by a subtler, more secret thread: a light, a breath, a shared intensity.

And so an archipelago slowly forms. Not a series in the strict sense, but a constellation of visual islands, linked by invisible currents. I don’t try to explain these connections. They exist, and that is enough. Sometimes it's the silences that resonate between the images; sometimes it’s the gaps, the margins, or what resists clarity.

I work this way, in a kind of floating attention. I let the images respond to each other, brush against one another, sometimes contradict themselves. Only later does the whole begin to take shape. A series never starts with a title: it emerges once the images begin to organize themselves, to whisper a kind of coherence. Meaning is not given—it surfaces. And often slips away the moment you try to grasp it.

My approach is slow, organic. Nothing is fixed. A series is never truly finished. I often return, months or years later, to a body of work I thought complete. I shift images, remove some, add others. Start over. Each series contains, in potential, another possible series—a parallel version of what might have been.

I am not trying to illustrate a thesis. I do not document. I dwell instead in that uncertain in-between, where the image becomes a space for questioning—of time, of absence, of what eludes us. My photography is not here to provide answers, but to open things up. It invites a form of attention, of presence to the world—its folds, its fractures, its breathing.

To create, for me, is this: to inhabit a shifting archipelago. To accept that the path is made by walking. To remain open to the unexpected. And above all, to let the image speak before the words.