I AM NOT A PHOTOGRAPHER, I AM MY PHOTOGRAPHY

“The only roads are those that offer access" - Wisława Szymborska / Photo 2019 (revised, 2016)

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I don't usually pursue specific goals in my photography. Instead, I seek a feeling, a state of mind, and an opportunity for experimentation. I am not a professional photographer, nor do I aspire to be one. It's not because I underestimate professionalism; it's because I have always sensed a certain limitation in the idea of thinking of oneself primarily as a "photographer". Such an identity or label can easily bind you to a role, a skill, or an expected result. That is why I often say that I am "something like a photographer." For me, photography has never been about building a name or collecting achievements. I have no ambition to become anyone within the artistic hierarchy of photography—a "visual artist," a "content creator," or any other social role one might define—nor do I wish to leave a mark on the history of the medium.
Of course, I appreciate and am flattered when my work reaches more people, but not for the sake of popularity. What matters to me is emotional connection. When an image finds a place in someone else’s life and becomes part of their story, I feel an overwhelming joy, as though I had found a long-lost twin.
Some say that good photography is when the photographer disappears, when the author does not stand out. It should feel effortless and natural. I have never been particularly concerned with appearing in or hiding behind my images. Nor have I been obsessed with ease. What I photograph and what eventually emerges as a photograph is me—or at least, the version of me that existed when I encountered that image. I don't mean self-portraits; I mean everything I have ever photographed. My photographs reflect my capacities, limitations, and possibilities at a given moment, as well as my ability to respond creatively—or simply instinctively—to the world and the subjects in front of me.
It may be clichéd, but it is still worth saying: making a photograph is about more than just pressing the shutter button, and it's not just about the idea of some ultimate final result. The act of photography encompasses the entire time span from beginning to end—from the initial need and instinct to surrender to it, to the anticipation and doubt, to the period during which an image rests on film or in a digital file that has yet to be opened. It includes the editing process, the mistakes made, and revisiting a frame days, months, or years later. It also includes all the changes in perception that occur during that time. More often than not, a photograph only truly begins to exist long after it has been taken.
Over time, I have realised that what attracts me to photography has little to do with the image itself, aesthetics, or even the act of taking pictures. Photography is merely a pretext. It's a reason to direct attention toward something that would otherwise pass unnoticed in life. It is a way of preserving something that, by its very nature, is destined to disappear.
Another cliché, though relevant and reasonable, is that photography preserves memories. I find myself believing this less and less. Memories change, fade, and rewrite themselves, whether or not they are documented. Photography does not preserve the past intact, nor does it preserve the memory itself. Instead, photography creates a new form of presence. It doesn't return a moment as it was; it allows it to continue to exist differently in the observer's environment and state of mind.
Photography has long been regarded as irrefutable evidence that something happened in the past. Yet, in many ways, photography resembles fake news: a parallel reality, a paraphrased truth, and, in some cases, the complete opposite of what actually was.
My photography is not just a collection of images. Rather, it is an archive of my encounters with the world and the various versions of myself. It is a trace of how I existed at a particular moment and how that moment existed within me. This is why it is not evidence, but rather a space where I continue to encounter myself.
It does not conquer time, though I once held romantic beliefs about its ability to do so. It does not stop things from disappearing, nor does it promise immortality. But it reminds me that I was here, that I looked, and that I felt. If anything remains after all the images are gone, it will not be the images themselves, but the traces of attention paid to life.

This is why my photography is me, yet I am not a photographer.

June, 2026