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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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’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.

The entire process was deeply formative. During the development of my initial project, I experienced one of the most significant losses of my life, reopening old wounds and reminding me that I still have a great deal to reflect on and communicate. That’s how

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?

That symbols are everywhere, and if you manage to weave them into the creative process, they can enrich it immensely. One has to stay attentive to the symbols around us. Not because they are signs of the future, or because they have some superstitious power, but because they reflect what lies within ourselves, the processes happening inside.

I’ve learned to think a little bit more about the shots that I want, and I’ve also unlearned the need to focus on getting the perfect picture while working on such a project. I think when you think less, you naturally create something more coherent.

The best photos I’ve taken are the unplanned ones or the ones that were improvised. Whether a lamp failed, the original idea wasn’t working during the session, or my space was limited at a concert, etc. Photos don’t have to be perfect all the time.

Many of my ideas come from phrases I’ve read, dreams, or places I stumble upon by chance. A recurring dream I have is running without being able to stop, afraid that I’ve missed something extraordinary.

For me, photography happens in this encounter. The more the other person feels seen, heard, and at ease, the more honest the image becomes. My work seeks to inhabit the threshold between the documentary and the intimate, where light, time, and presence construct a silent narrative.

I’ve always been very interested in artisanal techniques and the importance of keeping them alive through generational knowledge. That’s why I spent a few weeks in Oaxaca and San Luis Potosí visiting some mezcal distilleries, and I was fortunate enough to photograph the master mezcaleros throughout their entire process.

Good things take time. I’m someone who likes to see quick results, or at least I used to. But I’ve been working on this project for four years. In the beginning, I was very stressed because I couldn’t see the final outcome. Luckily, I had a great mentor who convinced me that if I kept working and photographing in my own way, something would eventually emerge.

Lately, I’ve been focused on photographing what I like to call “my life path.” Everything that inspires me comes from my daily life: my friends, my work, my travels; whatever I consider important to me.