Four long-form series form a constellation around Eschaton, its gravitational centre. Each opens a different question — what remains, what returns, what refuses to be said. Metamorphosis and Twelve Hours belong to earlier work, kept here for the record.
ESCHATON is the point at which the separate bodies of work converge — and where images that belong to no single series find their place. It is not a retrospective. It is not a summary. It is what happens when a corpus reaches its own horizon and looks back at itself.
My grandfather was a Nazi. I grew up in the Black Forest. Todtnauberg begins where beauty and complicity share the same soil.
The land remembers. Not as archive, not as monument — but as texture, as light, as the slow persistence of what has no voice. Resonances is an act of listening.
Something is wrong, but nothing has happened yet. Unheimlichkeit photographs that suspension — a present already marked by its own end, familiar and irreparably strange.
A child photographed for twelve years. The slow transformation the eye cannot hold, held here.
Transit. The hours that do not count — and in which something settles anyway.