New York City, 2016
From my earliest days, I was surrounded by bewitching images. Chief among them was my mother, the first woman my eyes ever saw, a vision of beauty who, having left this world at 27, remains in my imagination as an idealized form of feminine perfection. Photographed at 19 by the great Jean Loup Sieff, her captivating gaze and perfect figure forever mesmerized the child I was and the man I became. These early visions have shaped my perceptions of women and the world, leading me to seek beauty in every subject or object that holds my attention—a quest that has, at times, felt like a curse, limiting both my appreciation of art and my personal connections.
Yet, this narrow pursuit eventually compelled me to explore other aesthetics, broadened by mentors like painter Gérard Fromanger and countless books. Though I still avoid what I consider “vulgar” or unattractive, I’ve learned to see beauty in unexpected places, particularly where fragility resides. This elusive idea of beauty—so difficult to define—is what I strive to express through photography.
Photography—or rather, my obsession with it—came to me late. For most of my life, even though I almost always carried a camera around, I was too shy or embarrassed to call myself a “photographer.” Throughout my professional career in the media, I met and befriended many talented artists. At first, I was content being a “producer” rather than a “creator.” Yet, over time, I became aware of certain moments that irresistibly called to me—a pretty woman, an automobile, a landscape, a house, an object, a face, a memory. They would appear and vanish as if glimpsed in passing, leaving a longing I couldn’t shake. It finally became clear that I needed to “capture” these ephemeral visions, for my own sake, and perhaps to share that fleeting beauty with others. The camera has now become my third, mechanical eye, a way of catching moments otherwise too fleeting to hold.
And then, there is the solitude—the allure of capturing the quiet lives of those on the edges. I’m drawn to people who carry a certain loneliness with them, a silent grace. When I photograph these people, there’s a familiarity in their solitude, a resonance that speaks to the parts of myself I’ve rarely shared. It’s not isolation but rather a peaceful distance from the world that I see in them. There’s a quiet defiance in their eyes, an understanding that I find myself yearning to capture. Through them, I see my own attraction to solitude, my own journey of quiet, often unseen moments, and my fascination with the echoes of a past that may never fully return.
Now that I understand what compels me to take these photos, I feel ready to share them. It lightens the burden that was mine alone to bear for so long. Perhaps it’s selfish, this need to hold onto the ephemeral, but it’s also a gift—one I can finally give, not only to myself but to anyone who longs to see the world a little differently.