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.

En este último año he sentido mi lado creativo en modo supervivencia. Me paso el tiempo intentando seguir sintiéndome ‘artista’ o buscando inspiración en lo que me rodea, luchando por mantener la esencia de lo que captan mis ojos.

Inventé un proceso para generar ‘trama’ en las imágenes, como para poder ver esa especie de ‘tejido’ en mis fotografías, lo que las hace aparentar que provienen de cámaras de vigilancia. Entendí que el ojo vigilante está más vivo que nunca.

El valor de la paciencia y el ritual del retorno: volver a las mismas calles hasta encontrar la luz y las sombras exactas que busco. A veces es difícil confiar en que hay belleza en lo cotidiano y lograr que los demás también lo aprecien.

Nuestras arrugas cuentan historias. Nuestras cicatrices muestran que hemos sobrevivido. Las estrías demuestran que constantemente cambiamos y nos adaptamos. Pasamos demasiado tiempo temiendo el final, cuando deberíamos sentirnos orgullosos de mostrar cuán vivos estamos. No hay sol sin sombra. Cada amanecer necesita de una noche.

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.

He desaprendido la justificación conceptual o analítica y me encuentro explorando la sensibilidad y la intuición, buscando “la erótica del arte y no la hermenéutica”. Ha sido en parte aterrador, porque la no racionalización supone también darle paso a la propia vulnerabilidad, pero me siento feliz.

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.

Me ayudó tener tiempo de sobra para pensar, observar películas y revisar los trabajos que habían filmado otros compañeros; eso me permitió entender cómo podía contar una historia con los pocos recursos que disponía en ese momento.

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.

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.

In a world that moves so fast, a creative challenge is finding the time and space to create. For me, creating is a ritualistic act that requires a process. Finding that inspiration, those moments when everything flows, can be complex.

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.

Many times I feel that my work isn’t good enough. Over the years I’ve learned to recognize those thoughts and not give them too much weight. Going out to take photos has become a form of rebellion against them: not taking everything so seriously and simply showing real moments.

After a year I’d describe as deeply formative, returning to our roots, reconnecting with a crew we hadn’t worked with in years and filming once again in our hometown, Hermosillo, Sonora, felt like a hug for the heart.

I’ve learned that balance is essential: being able to dedicate time to my own projects not only fuels my creativity but also keeps my motivation and passion alive. Understanding my limits and prioritizing my personal growth has been a constant learning process.

For some time now, I’ve been working on a series that combines elements of fantasy and dreamlike imagery with a Southern Gothic vibe, titled ængelical Gëist. I hope it takes a physical form this year, perhaps as a zine or an exhibition/installation.

I don’t draw inspiration from any single artist. Inspiration for me is fluid: some works resonate for a time and then fade. I’m more interested in observing how perspectives shift, how languages evolve, and how creative processes transform over time.

The word memory, because every time I take a photo it’s to remember or preserve a moment. Memory will always be a powerful tool against forgetting, and since it’s possible to forget, we have images to keep memory alive.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on the temporality of the image and on how distance is an important factor in reading it. Not just physical distance, but also the critical distance that comes with the passage of time, with the materiality of the format and medium.

Lately, I have been working on a project involving cyanotype called Cocol, like the Mexican bread. On the other hand, I continue creating images that focus on the female body as a central subject, alongside another theme I’ve been exploring over the past two years: childhood.

I think it is important to know how to distinguish between what is being lived and what is being recorded, and to feel confident that beyond the image there is also an enduring memory that will ultimately become the true symbol of the photograph.

As a photographer, I believe we all pursue something when we take a photo. For me, it’s something intimate, a closeness that can be felt through the image. The photos that evoke this emotion are the ones I connect with most, and I like to think that this aspect runs through all of my work.

Many questions arose: To what extent have we contributed to the language of photography? Should photography adhere to a program of representation simply because it is an optical tool? What are the limits of mimesis, reality, and truth?