Taking self-portraits is a practice that began without me even realizing it, and one I've never shared until now. It's been a way for me to get to know myself, in my most vulnerable and even playful moments. It's like looking back and realizing all the lives I've lived.

I'm learning to trust my mistakes and incorporate them into my work. I try not to overthink while I draw and let myself be guided by my mood at that moment.

While I was on the crane building the final piece, I made aesthetic decisions about it. I was thinking about how interesting it is that many contemporary artists make drawings and then have their pieces manufactured. I feel that very creative moments are lost during the production process.

Lately I've been experiencing nostalgia as a latent emotion; before I thought it was a bad thing, but with time I understand that it's not all bad. I love remembering the past, my friends from design school, and those years.

Mistakes are key to finding the right sound or feeling; making mistakes is the most fun part. Sometimes mistakes stay in the final version because they add a different touch. But trial and error is the only way to get there. 

There are things from the past that still pierce me like thorns. With great patience, I'm getting rid of them. I trust what my mother used to say when I was little: that all thorns, in time, eventually come out.

Analog photography is a back-and-forth of emotions and frustrations. Patience is the greatest virtue in this learning process. Through so many mistakes, you begin to understand more about how it works, and honestly, it’s such an enriching feeling—even though it can also be discouraging at times.

Working with paper and printed photographs is a continuous learning process. It develops my compositional skills, color sense, and creativity in general.

I’ve always been obsessed with bygone eras — the cars, the fashion, the music, and the way we’ve evolved as a society. But more than anything, I’m drawn to architecture: the designs that were brought to life decades ago and that have, in many cases, been left almost entirely unchanged.

I love the process: finding, collecting, cutting, deconstructing, selecting, recomposing, pasting… Over the years, I have used different media (painting, drawing, engraving, photogravure), and my personal conception of collage has been shaped at the intersection of all these practices.

I’m a morning person and feel an overwhelming sense of hope and comfort when watching the sunrise.

I’ve written a lot throughout this process, and many of those words revolve around the same idea: a sensitivity toward what is broken, old, worn, used, weathered, walked-through, felt. There’s a strong identification with everything that carries history, marks, and memory. I understand those who see beauty in that.

I’ve been working primarily on my photographic woodblock pieces. They usually end up on mulberry paper, and sometimes on stretched raw calico. Recently, many of these works have featured images of orchestras and conductors, as well as frames from various video pieces.

I spent the winter in Mexico City, and from there I drew inspiration for a series of images based on the traffic of this city. I’m very interested in the contrast between speed, solid concrete, and natural forms—how these three layers coexist.

Lately, I’ve been interested in portraying silence—spaces where a certain nostalgia coexists. Capturing the moment of what no longer exists.

Whenever I have music in my ears, I feel more like myself.

It’s easier to adhere to rules and judge based on imposed, defined, and clear canons, but it’s also suffocating—at least for me and for my eye, which doesn’t naturally see through those parameters.

This project was more of a reminder: that history matters. And while every generation and culture has its issues, using technology that forces you to slow down really does work wonders for the mind and heart.

My recent work has been somewhat introspective. I want to represent how humanity dissolves into spaces, what traces it leaves behind; that process between interacting with a space and no longer being in it has occupied much of my thinking, and now I direct my eye toward that.

It has been a very interesting process because along the way I discovered that there are many ways to create narratives—not only those we might call conventional—which also encourages continuous experimentation.

A desire to see familiar places with fresh eyes, to honor imperfection, and to reconnect with the magic found in everyday life.

My grandma is visiting for the Lunar New Year, and I am documenting her recipes with illustrations. My sketchbook is currently full of scallion pancakes, kimchi, and dumplings.

It’s been really fun shooting live performances on film and interviewing artists and organisers. I also do work covering protests and events that happen in my city.

I’m interested in how images can inhabit space, how sequences are built, and how a book can function almost like a structure—something you enter rather than scroll through.

There’s a quote by Susan Sontag that says: “To photograph is to frame, and to frame is to exclude.” While her statement is completely true, photography for me has been a way of savoring what surrounds me, not excluding it-

I think each project can be a great teacher if you listen carefully. Working with large-scale entities is always something I find enlightening, as you do get to see the inner workings and behind the scenes of companies that shape the current discourse and economy.

I enjoy working with error, with time, and with chance—slower, more experimental processes where each image becomes almost an event.

I am planning to travel and document the lives of people who still live close to their traditions and to nature, and through this process, to understand them and myself more deeply.

These specific works—the pencil drawings and the woodblocks—carry more texture. They are more labor-intensive and require patience, repetition, and resilience.

Around that time, it became a creature that inhabited my home, whose cloth-covered gaze I couldn’t escape in any corner of my room. Something familiarly melancholic made me want to photograph it in its everyday coexistence.