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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.