Notes from an Unfinished Self
This journal was born from a quiet need — the need to slow down, to look again, and to give shape to what usually remains unspoken between photographs.
Here, I gather fragments from the road and from within: thoughts that surface after long walks with the camera, small encounters that linger, reflections on light, distance, and belonging.
It’s not meant to explain the images, but to stay close to the pulse that created them — to the wandering, the doubt, the wonder.
A space to share not only what I see, but how I feel when I see.
I was never made from one single thread.
More like a weave — loose, uneven, stitched from places that rarely meet.
They say every story has a beginning, but mine has many.
The first and most important was with my grandmother.
She was the first light I ever knew — a quiet kind of angel who never spoke of miracles, yet lived as one.
Her hands smelled of bread and wildflowers, and her voice carried the patience of someone who believed that kindness could fix almost anything.
She taught me that gentleness is not weakness,
that the smallest gestures — a shared apple, a soft word — are what hold the world together.
From her, I learned the art of seeing before I ever held a camera.
She looked at people the way light looks at faces — without judgment, just presence.
Another beginning on a football field, under the weight of rain and shouts, when the world was still about winning.
Another beginning in my mother’s classroom, where flasks and chalk dust whispered that life is made of reactions.
And somewhere between them, two poets — my fathers — taught me that silence also speaks, if you learn its rhythm.
I tried to follow form, to live by numbers.
Mathematics gave me the comfort of certainty, of things that could be proven.
But words kept slipping through — poems, fragments, songs.
For a while, I rapped, wrote verses that tried to hold the noise of being young.
Later, I designed gardens, thinking that maybe beauty could be arranged, too.
I painted.
I wrote.
I built things from code, and dismantled them again, just to see how they worked.
And I read about the gods — how every belief is a mirror trying to catch its own reflection.
But none of it stayed.
Each craft was a room I entered for a while before realizing it wasn’t home.
Then came photography.
It didn’t ask me to choose between science or art, sound or silence.
It just asked me to look.
Now, the camera is the only instrument that seems to contain all the others:
the kindness of a grandmother,
the rhythm of football,
the logic of mathematics,
the sensitivity of poetry,
the curiosity of science.
Through it, I no longer need to explain myself.
Light does that for me —
patiently, quietly, in a language that belongs to everyone.
And maybe, just maybe…this is what I’ve been looking for all along:
a way to say everything
without needing to say a word.
