This project is a photo essay, a performance, a diary… The idea of a death metal ballad feels very powerful to me, something harsh yet soft at the same time. If it had a soundtrack, it would be made by my band, ATTENTION WHORES.

As contemporary photographers, I think we have to deeply interrogate our role in this image-world that is accelerating at what seems to be an unstoppable pace, and reflect on why the camera and photography are so tightly bound to capital and to the forces that are destroying this planet.

I’ve been calibrating my personal process; it will never be ideal, because that would take the fun out of it, but I’ve learned to let go of ideas that used to paralyze me or keep me from taking the next step. It’s still difficult to exhibit, to choose, to think, to process. I don’t think it will ever stop being difficult; I just dare a little more each time.

I’ve learned to be patient with the creative process. Even though a photograph may seem instantaneous, behind it there is an endless accumulation of emotions, decisions, and time. Going out with a camera is not always as easy as it seems; it requires inspiration and confidence.

I have been working on an organic and/or exaggerated aesthetic in food: gloss, highlights, and reflections. I learned to play with timing, lighting, and different situations, as well as to understand the right moments to control and work with precise shutter speeds.

As I transitioned from other media toward photography as the central axis of my practice, I learned to follow my instincts more closely and to listen carefully to the signals of my own body and mind. It was also a process of unlearning: letting go of certain external expectations and trusting more in my personal way of creating and observing.

I always try to look for a story in photos. I really like pictures where you can see a part of documenting, personality, reflection, emotions. Now I’d like to capture life as it is — to try not to push too much.

Over the past year, I’ve felt my creative side in survival mode. I spend my time trying to keep feeling like an “artist” or looking for inspiration in my surroundings, struggling to maintain the essence of what my eyes capture.

I invented a process to create “texture” in the images, to reveal a sort of “weaving” in my photographs, making them appear as if they come from surveillance cameras. I realized that the watchful eye is more alive than ever.

The value of patience and the ritual of returning: going back to the same streets until I find the exact light and shadows I seek. Sometimes it's hard to believe that there is beauty in the everyday and to get others to appreciate it too.

Every activity is better if you enjoy yourself while doing it. You can build sets with lights, cameras, and wardrobe, but if you don’t approach it with the necessary lightness, sometimes it simply won’t work. I’ve learned that I shouldn’t do things expecting a result if I don’t allow myself to enjoy the process.

I have unlearned the need for conceptual or analytical justification and have instead begun working from sensitivity and intuition, searching for “the erotics of art, not its hermeneutics.” This shift has been partly unsettling, as letting go of rationalization also means allowing space for vulnerability, yet it has been deeply fulfilling.

I learned that our wrinkles tell stories. That our scars show we have survived. That our stretch marks reveal how constantly we change and adapt. That we spend too much time fearing the ending, when we should be proud of how alive we are.

That voice that insists nothing I do has value, that everything has already been done, that someone else could do it better. Learning to coexist with her —and not let her take control— has been one of my greatest challenges.

I realized that the creative process isn’t measured by perfection, but by what it leaves within you. I was hard on myself, blind to what was actually working, until I learned to see beauty in imperfection.

Having plenty of time to think, watch films, and review the projects other classmates had shot helped me a lot. This allowed me to understand how I could tell a story with the limited resources I had at the time.

I’ve been working on a series about dwelling, made up of fragments of homes that could belong to anyone, inviting the viewer to connect with their own sense of space. Between discipline and rest, I enjoy the creative process, and inspiration emerges from everyday life and from conversations with other artists.

Through these projects, I’d say I learned to observe again with calm, through curiosity, contemplation, play, and a dialogue with my immediate surroundings.I still feel that same excitement when I pick up the camera and head out into the street without knowing what I’ll find.

Spending long hours working and experimenting in the darkroom, something I hadn’t done in years. I fell in love again with mistakes, the unexpected, the unrepeatable. I reconnected with the memory of the body and movement in the dark, as well as with the loss of the sense of time.

I’ve been learning to quiet the part of my mind that tends to sabotage me, and to throw myself into trying the things that scare me the most. I’ve had opportunities to work on projects where I was afraid of failing, but today I’m deeply grateful I took them.

Nostalgia is what’s most present in my mind when I take photos. Much of what I photograph are things I saw as a child or years ago, which I now look at with a lot of affection and love.