A Film? How the Idea Began The idea didn’t come from a storyboard or a pitch — it grew in the quiet spaces between photographs. The moments no one plans for. During shoots, I began noticing the in-between: the meals crowded around a table, the way a voice softened on the porch at dusk, the
A meditation on the unspoken power struggle between photographer and model, exploring how attraction, trust, and control shape the relationship between photographer and model during the making of a portrait. This is not just about photography. It is about the quiet, consensual theft that happens when one person agrees to be seen by another. Written
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: People ask why I mostly photograph young adults — eighteen, nineteen, into their twenties. I understand the question, and I understand the suspicion underneath it. But the answer isn’t about youth as a category. It’s about a specific, narrow passage: the interval when a person
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
