What often happens to the subjects of my photographs is that they don’t recognize themselves later in my photos, so I’m forced to ask myself some questions: Is it because it’s so easy to forget that what others see and love in us is not the same as what we see and love on ourselves? Are my portraits saying more about me, than about those on the pictures? Do I use their body positions and their expressions to speak about my own absence, departures, longings and dreams? Where is the source of that atmosphere that prevails at many of my photos, the atmosphere of nostalgia for the irretrievably lost or the atmosphere filled with fear from the uncertainty of future?



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