Somethings about me as an artist
I am drawn to light and form — to the moment when the wind brushes the field, when the air turns dense and silvery, or when tree trunks become black and wet. I love how everything turns red when you look into the light, and how birch leaves shimmer like golden coins in the sky. I cherish the moment when you no longer know whether you're at the bottom of the sea or on the forest floor. I love it when the forest grows dark and seems to say, "You’d better go home now — I belong to myself."
In nature, I feel something that rings true. I am moved by its inherent aesthetics — its beauty and melancholy. I love that everything is in motion, always slipping into blur, that everything comes and goes, rises and dissolves, sprouts and decays — and that there is comfort in knowing this, even if it’s heavy at times.
I love the fact that I almost missed the rainbow, almost didn’t see the sunset, nearly overlooked the raindrops on the pine needles.
Each photograph is the result of a decision: Do I go out? Where do I look? How far do I walk? When do I leave? Do I turn around?
Text and image are inseparably connected for me.
I place each photograph in context through the way it is produced, framed, and titled. Every image receives a title, and every image is accompanied by a text — a poem.
The poem is an integral part of the work and is written specifically for each individual photograph. Longing, becoming, hoping, loving, brief moments of beauty, fear, finding and losing oneself — these are the themes my texts explore.
Sky is everywhere
It’s very simple: I started photographing what was around me. A chronic condition often makes it difficult for me to leave the house, travel far, or go on trips. Most of my images are created in my immediate surroundings — many in my garden or from my window. Many in the forest just a few meters from my home. Right next to my house is a bridge where I can see the sky stretching across the entire town.
I’ve developed the habit of always observing the light — watching the sky, or the grass by the pond in the garden as the wind moves through it. These photographs exist only because all of this is always around me, revealing itself every single day. I truly believe I couldn’t show anything more beautiful than what is already there. My images are usually understood intuitively for what they are: fleeting, beautiful — but also dark — moments within and beyond ourselves. They are an invitation to open oneself to life, even when feeling uncertain, ungrounded, or formless. I often experiment with liquids and grease on the lens. This allows me to capture the soft, flickering, moving, and accidental — while merging shapes and colors and blending them with light.
In my photographs, I don’t want to dissect what a fern looks like. I want to show what it feels like to see the fern — or what it feels like to dream it.
I like the term sfumato. It originates from oil painting and refers to a technique in which forms soften and blend into one another. In my photographs, I connect with my images in a similar way — by giving them, through my texts, something beyond my gaze: a part of my inner world. The boundaries of the captured moment blur with my associations — just as the grease and liquids I often apply to the lens dissolve the borders between light, color, and subject.
