Some time ago, a friend told me: “your style is basically just excessive grain, nothing else.” He was right about the presence of grain. He had not understood what fundamentally connects all my images.

When I build a series, I am not trying to represent reality; I am trying to introduce deliberate accidents into it. Blur, misalignment, noise. These imperfections are not mistakes made while shooting, nor effects added afterwards. They are decisions. What I keep from a scene is never what it looked like, but what it did to me.

Grain is the most direct form of that. Its presence says something about the intensity of the moment, about the speed at which I pressed the shutter, about the light I refused to correct. It carries the texture of lived experience rather than its clean version. When I look at one of my heavily noisy images, I don’t see a technical flaw. I find a state again. Often nostalgia. Often something tied to the ephemeral, to what disappears while we are looking elsewhere.

We are passing beings who act as if we were not. My images do not try to forget that.

It is not a photograph with grain: it is a representation of sadness, nostalgia, solitude, and the ephemeral.