I photograph because, in that instant, I want to affirm something that resonates with me. Photography is my way of stopping time, of saying: “This moment, this scene, this feeling—it matters to me.“

Sometimes, my choice is driven by emotion. A landscape, a street, or even a fleeting expression on someone’s face can strike something profound inside me. Other times, it’s about how light interacts with a subject, the contrast of shadows, or a particular geometric composition. There’s no fixed formula, no conscious pattern. It’s instinctive. I see something, and I know: this needs to be captured.

Most of the time, my instinct leads me toward landscapes. The vastness of nature, the way colors shift with the time of day, the power of an untouched horizon—this is where I feel most at home. But that doesn’t mean I shy away from architecture, travel, portrait, or street photography. There’s something equally compelling about human-made structures, about the rhythm of a city, and about the fleeting, unscripted moments that unfold in the streets.

Yet, not every scene can be captured. There have been moments when my camera couldn’t translate what I felt, or technical limitations or restrictions made it impossible to take a photo. In those cases, all I have is memory. Sometimes, I write down what I saw, trying to preserve it in words. But mostly, those moments stay with me, etched into my mind as something personal, something I wish I could have shared.

And that, ultimately, is why I photograph. I want to share. I want to show people—whether close friends or complete strangers—what I see, what I feel, and what moves me. I want to give others a chance to perceive something through my lens, evoke emotions, and communicate ideas through images rather than words. My photography is no longer just for me. It’s my way of opening up to the world.