What I definitely learned is to be patient and consistent. I’ve been doing this since 2006, and I think that after many closed doors, in recent years I’m just beginning to see the results of nearly two decades of work as a photographer.

The hardest part has been finding the perfect moment to create. I love doing it, but I often wonder why I can’t be creating all the time. Sometimes I have so many ideas in my head that they turn into noise, making it hard to bring them to life.

For me, creating is an act of love—toward oneself, above all. And I feel a certain responsibility to stay in a state that allows me to do it with minimal interference, while staying connected to play and pleasure.

I realized that I still have a lot to learn, that my vision —or my “eye”— is constantly changing, and that I can always improve it, destroy it, or do whatever I want with it, because I believe that’s what art is about.

Insecurity: that feeling of not being good enough or of overconsuming what you create. On platforms like TikTok or YouTube, there are so many creative people, and it's inevitable to compare yourself; sometimes that's discouraging.

I think about identity and roots. About the urgency of telling stories from who we are. I’m drawn to cinema with a Mexican soul, with mystique, with history; cinema that doesn’t copy foreign languages, but instead discovers its own territory.

With my analog camera, I try to capture fragments of life that often go unnoticed: a light falling on a bench, people passing by, and silences hidden in the streets. It's a visual diary that becomes a form of resistance against oblivion.

Even if you study the technique and strive for control, film always holds a mystery. The image creates itself, at its own pace, in its own time. And no matter how much you plan, you won't truly know what you've captured until you develop it.

I've rarely approached photography with a specific goal in mind; it's been something that has accompanied me through moves, relationships, travels, walks, and periods of grief. A way to keep a record. A medium through which I've learned to embrace chance, play, and error.

I’ve learned to be grateful and to always be prepared for every opportunity, to give more than what’s expected, and to stay true to my vision and principles. I’ve also unlearned the habit of doubting the process. Trusting it has been essential.

Editing is not an afterthought, but a central part of the process. It is a delicate task that defines the final meaning of the images and demands as much attention as taking the photograph.

We live in a world overflowing with digital files that we never see again, files that accumulate deep within algorithms or on our devices. I've learned to take photos with intention and contemplation, not just to create more content. 

I learn a lot from watching and rewatching my work, from re-editing material. Today, "old material" can be just a few months old; it's crazy, everything moves too fast. It's important to stop and look at what was done before, to have the chance to appreciate it and see how it can or can't evolve with a new edition.

A few months ago, I stepped into a darkroom for the first time. It felt like being inside a shared womb, creating life by touch, amid the smell of chemicals, the dance of development, alarms reminding us that time exists.

I'm inspired by artists who convey real emotions and transport you to their world. For a few seconds, you forget your own reality and enter theirs. They transform simple moments into something that feels profound, intimate, and cinematic.

In the end, where does belonging stand? Everything becomes cyclical, and belonging becomes fleeting: nothing lasts. “People become places, and places become people.”

I believe that to be a good photographer, it's important to live; it's not about shooting all the time, it's important to experience new things and thus open yourself to new perspectives. From time to time, in these spaces, I feel the urge to shoot, to create, but without haste, simply because life allows it.

I love visuals, but sometimes I worry about falling into the trap of simply presenting "pretty pictures." For me, context is just as important as technique, and I have to constantly remind myself that one doesn't exclude the other.

I think what motivates me most to photograph is the feeling that what I'm seeing is about to end, to fade away, to disappear and never return. I don't experience it as something tragic, but as an almost visceral need to preserve it, to make it my own.

Through collage, I've learned to loosen up a bit on my obsessive side and let myself be guided by the images, the textures, and even the mistakes. I've discovered that this technique allows me to disconnect and find a calm that I don't always achieve with other mediums.

Using flash photography, I isolate specific moments from the context of parties, aiming to give the scene a surreal and theatrical feel. With macabre, ironic, and surreal undertones.