Photography
Possession. Now He’s Mine (Only for the Shot!) What happens in the silent space between model and lens. It comforts me, it infects me—this sudden, surgical attraction.Not for the man, but for the way the light fractures along his ribs when he exhales. For the way his pupils swallow the room when he realizes I’m
Naked or Nude? Chiaroscuro, Not Chippendales Recently, I found myself in a familiar debate with the curator of my book—a man of sharp intellect and, as he readily confessed, old-school Southern propriety. I joked that his deep-South upbringing might explain his slightly puritanical take on nudity. His stance was firm: every nude image is inherently
AI vs. Mosquito Massacre Recently, I exchanged a few comments about AI-generated images—after I tried (and failed) to recreate one myself. The attempt ended in disaster thanks to a gold-glitter malfunction. Think “wardrobe malfunction,” but artier—and messier. I was aiming for elegance, but instead ended up with something between a sparkly accident and a cautionary
Tell Me Lies I don’t call myself a photographer.I use a camera, but not to document reality. I’m after images that leave room for doubt.Not the obvious kind, but the kind that hides in plain sight:A shadow that could be sorrow or surrender,A gaze that suggests devotion—or deception. I want a picture to make you
The Ephemeral Beauty: Capturing What Time Cannot Hold Ephemeral Beauty: A question I frequently encounter is why my photography focuses almost exclusively on young people. While the answer feels intuitive to me, I understand the curiosity, as it touches on the core of my artistic vision. The answer centers on a specific, compelling stage of
The Paradox:In the creative process, particularly when arranging nude models in a composition, I find myself entwined in a fascinating contradiction. It’s a delicate dance between my own vulnerability and the physical exposure of my subjects. This paradox raises a poignant question: who is truly revealing the most – the artist or the models? On
We were in the living room of my quarters at Suesca, in the old Hacienda where we were staying for the photo shoots. The room had an air of historical grandeur, its aged walls lined with artworks that hinted at its storied past. Andrés, somewhat shy and naturally reserved, requested to be photographed alone. Acknowledging
The tattoo, a depiction of Lucifer’s fall from the eye of God, seemed to echo the ancient wall it rested upon—a surface weathered by time, its history carved into every crack and moss-covered stone. The wall, a remnant of a Roman road leading to an Imperial Villa, had borne witness to centuries of human ambition,
We had been shooting since morning, the kind of relentless sun that leached the energy and left everyone a little sun-stunned and raw. Now, the house breathed a sigh of quiet, the garden hushed under the weight of the bruised purple and orange of the closing sky. Light was slipping away, that elusive blue hour
I often forget the plot of a book or a movie just a few months after finishing it. At least the names, the details. What sticks with me isn’t the story—it’s the way it’s told. I get pulled in by the language, the rhythm, the way the writer builds a world through tiny, careful choices.
