We live in a time when our ability to describe, analyse and communicate the world is constantly expanding, yet the principles that might help us make sense of it seem increasingly difficult to grasp. Paul Ricoeur described this imbalance as the “bulimia of means” confronted with the “anorexia of ends.” My practice begins with this tension. I am interested in what an image can still reveal when it does not attempt to provide a complete answer. Rather than resolving meaning, I want the image to leave something open beyond what is immediately visible. Meaning emerges in the space between what we are shown and what remains beyond it. The image becomes a threshold between the visible and the not-yet-sayable.

I do not see an image as complete in itself. Its meaning unfolds through its relationship with other ones. This is why I work primarily in series, where photographs enter into dialogue and, through repetition, rhythm and variation, gradually form a vision that no single image could sustain on its own.

My work often begins with landscape, but I think of it primarily in terms of place: a space shaped by experience, memory and perception. A place carries traces and absences, expectations and tensions. It belongs to the physical world, yet it can also become an inner condition. Through the act of looking, an ordinary place can exceed its immediate reality and acquire a wider significance.

In this stage man is absent, but the human is not. It remains in the places we inhabit, in the traces we leave behind, in distance, anticipation and the tensions that run through a space. I am interested in what endures beyond the individual: experiences and conditions that belong to us before they can be reduced to a face, a gesture or a name. Absence, then, is not the disappearance of the human, but another way of making it felt — quietly, indirectly, and beyond the visible.