research

The Alchemist does not arrive announced. It arrives through a door left open by curiosity.

By the time I made the first images of Spectral Spring, I had been studying Photoshop seriously — not as a tool for correction, but as a space for intervention. Learning an instrument means discovering what it can do that you had not imagined. Some of those discoveries open doors. I walked through them.

It started with the light on my wall.
My apartment in Chiasso has large metal blinds and oversized windows — east-facing in the morning, west-facing in the evening. The sun rises almost directly into my face, and sets through the bedroom. The patterns the light threw across the walls were irresistible: geometric, precise, shifting slowly with the movement of the Earth. I was already photographing differently by then — training my eye on empty spaces, shadows, the margins between things rather than the things themselves. I was learning to see what most people overlook.