I’m 58, and I’ve spent most of my life chasing whatever hides behind the light.

For more than three decades, I’ve tried to push photography and film past the borders of storytelling — to make them questions, not answers. I split my time between Paris and Berlin, two cities that taught me how to stay restless, never comfortable. I don’t really try to tell stories; I try to mess with perception. My work isn’t about beauty — it’s about resistance.

I started out in the chaos of Berlin, right after the Wall came down — shared studios, squats, long nights arguing about art and freedom. Then came the road trips, the wandering: Latin America, Asia, places where myth and reality overlap. I never had a master plan. Just a need to understand, or at least to feel. Every detour, every mistake, every encounter left a mark. My work grew out of that — a fragile, stubborn tension between loss and endurance.

My background is a bit of a patchwork. I studied philosophy at Harvard, cultural anthropology at Yale, art theory and aesthetics at Oxford... Heavy stuff — but those years taught me that thinking isn’t enough. You’ve got to get lost, too. Everything I’ve read, lived, and broken has turned, somehow, into an image.

I still shoot film. Always have. I develop my own negatives, play with unpredictable processes, and let the accidents do their work. The scratch, the grain, the imperfection — that’s where the truth sneaks in.
In film, I look for the same thing: raw, physical experiences where the image matters more than the plot. It’s not about telling stories neatly. It’s about feeling something real, even if it hurts a little.

My work’s been shown in museums — the Pompidou, MoMA, Tate Modern, Kunsthalle Wien — but honestly, I’ve never seen exhibitions as finish lines. They’re just pit stops along the way. Some of my stuff has appeared in Aperture, Cahiers du Cinéma, British Journal of Photography, American Cinematographer, Blind Magazine. It’s nice. But it’s not the point.

For me, art isn’t a career. It’s how I stay alive.
It’s a way to fight against speed, against forgetting, against the stories we’re told to believe. My photos and films don’t give answers. They open up spaces — places to get lost, to think, to breathe.

I don’t believe in perfect beauty. I believe in the kind that bleeds a little, the kind that trembles. The imperfect, human kind — the one that sticks with you long after everything else fades.