Reset
Concrete. Glass. Steel.
Spaces shaped by intention, by geometry, by design.
Everything was measured.
Every line considered.
Every shadow anticipated.
I learned how to wait for the right light, how to balance a frame, how to remove everything that did not belong.
Architecture demanded precision. Control. Stillness.
And for a long time, that discipline felt natural to me.
But gradually, something shifted.
The buildings grew larger.
The productions more complex.
The distances longer.
I was constantly moving through airports, hotels, unfamiliar cities — always looking outward, always responding to structures built by others.
At some point, I began to long for something smaller.
Quieter.
Closer to home.
Not another space to construct,
but a space to simply inhabit.
So I stayed.
And my cat became my subject.
It wasn’t a decision, not really.
She was just there — moving through the house, crossing the light, sleeping in corners, disappearing and reappearing like a small weather system.
Unposed. Unaware. Unrepeatable.
Photographing her felt like the opposite of architectural work.
No assistants.
No schedules.
No expectations.
Only observation.
Only time.
The house slowly changed scale.
A curtain became a landscape.
The edge of the sofa, a horizon.
Afternoon light spreading across the floor like water.
Her body would drift through these spaces, softening the geometry, undoing the straight lines I had relied on for years.
Nothing stayed fixed.
Nothing could be controlled.
And that loss of control felt like relief.
These images are not constructed in the way my earlier work was.
They are not solved or perfected.
They are found.
A shadow passing.
A brief alignment of light and fur.
A moment that almost disappears before it fully exists.
Sometimes nothing happens at all.
And that is enough.
In this slowness, photography returns to its most basic form — not as a way of organizing the world, but as a way of noticing it.
Looking.
Waiting.
Breathing.
Less architecture.
More presence.
Less design.
More light.
What began as a small, domestic gesture slowly became a kind of reset — a return to the essence of why I started photographing in the first place.
Not to capture space,
but to feel time passing through it.
These photographs are quiet, almost weightless.
They ask for very little.
They simply exist.
As if everything is beginning again,
from zero.
