Your work often explores the dynamics between the body and the landscape. What inspired you to focus on this relationship?
In my work, the body and its surroundings are intrinsically linked; they exist in the context of one another. From a visual standpoint, I'm more interested in exploring the parallels and echoes between self and landscape than in depicting the body on its own.
Every place we inhabit becomes the site of our intimate lives, however temporary. I'm always returning to specific rooms in my mind. I think about beds I’ve slept in, houses I’ve called home, corners of love and heartbreak. These spaces evoke emotions, and offer shelter for our daydreams. In turn, they reveal something about ourselves.
The settings I choose are never just a backdrop. They have a textural history that allows me to converse with time and memory. Even in open landscapes, I seek out these intimate pockets of enclosure.
As an analogue photographer, what draws you to film photography in an
increasingly digital world?
Shooting analogue is sensual, from the feeling of slotting the film perforations into place, to the sound of the winding lever and the smell of the developing chemicals.
Film is about working with silver. By keeping this premise at the heart of my practice, every step becomes more intentional. The essence of light and time feels ingrained in the analogue process, far more so than with digital.
When I did professional ballet, I needed an almost extreme sense of discipline to get the results I needed, from controlling a specific muscle to understanding a minute tempo change. Once I mastered a particular skill, I felt confident in adding my own interpretation. It’s the same with shooting film. The analogue process forces me to work in a very disciplined manner – no autofocus, no built-in light meter, only a set amount of frames per roll, etc. Within these narrow parameters, I find creative freedom.
Which lens do you swear by, and why?
I could talk about the Voigtlander 40/2 or my trusty Nikon 50/1.4, but when it comes down to it, the best lens is the lens I have on me that day. When I’m travelling or hiking, I don’t want to lug around too much gear. By restricting myself, I become more productive: one camera, one prime lens, one roll of film – now figure out the best way to make the story come to life.
Perhaps that’s why I enjoy shooting with my TLRs. I feel a sense of harmony with a fixed lens like the Rolleiflex Xenotar 3.5.
Your self-portraits convey a deep sense of solitude and introspection. How does
self-portraiture influence your understanding of self and space?
My work has always been deeply personal. Whether it’s writing or photography, everything I create has a diaristic quality, and the connection between self, space and solitude is embedded within.
I feel most creative when I’m alone. At the same time, I love people. I feed off their energy, seek out their stories, and revel in an afternoon of people-watching. But the best work happens when I’m on my own for an extended period.
In a way, the search for solitude has led me to self-portraiture. When I’ve been writing and have travelled too far into my own head, I appreciate the physicality of putting myself in the frame. Photography pulls me into the moment. Its tactile nature energises me.
Your work often touches on themes of longing and memory. How do you translate
such intangible emotions into visual form?
When it comes to darkroom printing, I love returning to a negative to see how the image takes shape on the page in various forms. I play with contrast, tone papers, and scratch negatives. So much of longing is about this twilight state of revisiting a moment in your head. My work seeks to reflect these layers of memory.
In a broader sense, I use recurring visual motifs to shape my narratives. They have evolved organically over time: the negative space, the central singular form, the caress of natural light. I’m drawn to windows, doors and mirrors, because they seem to hold both a past and a future. I’m always exploring how the memory of a moment returns to us in different forms and at different points.
Many of your images feel deeply personal, yet they also have a universal quality.
How do you balance vulnerability with relatability in your work?
The more personal a story, the more universal it becomes. The novels and poems I adore are always defined by a strong sense of setting and precise characterisation. I think of the lushness in Salter’s A Sport and a Pastime, the urban grit of McBride’s The Lesser Bohemians, the sweltering Saigon in Duras’ The Lover. I picture Qabbani’s love for Damascus or Cavafy in Alexandria.
I relate to these human stories because they enable a deep personal immersion through place and self. I approach my photography practice in the same way. Putting myself in the work requires a sense of vulnerability, but at the same time offers me complete control.
Are there any photographers, artists, or even filmmakers whose work inspires you right now?
I love artists who are working with paper ephemera, manipulating analogue film, and putting images in dialogue with the written word. Daniel Blaufuks’ diary/non-diary and Thomas Vandenberghe’s postal correspondence project are both excellent. Dirk Braeckman’s silver gelatin work feels rich and evocative. Sophie Calle always amazes me; her practice finds the balance between a strong narrative and a sense of vulnerability. I love Justin Tyler Close’s work – his storytelling is incredibly moving and intimate. Ellen Rogers is one of my favourite contemporary photographers. Her images possess an ethereal, timeless quality and a true sense of craftsmanship; I could live inside her worlds forever.
In your monthly newsletter, BLUE PRINTS, you explore themes of longing, solitude, and memory. How does writing complement your photographic practice?
I write about the photographs I did not take, and I photograph that which I cannot put into words. I’m interested in these lacunae – in the gaps of language, in the spaces between the frames, in the words that seem to go against the accompanying image, and vice versa.
There is always an implicit dialogue between the words and images I’m working on
concurrently. In BLUE PRINTS, I’m interested in exploring these tensions, alongside wider narratives on the intersection of writing and photography.
You split your time between London and Athens. How do these distinct
environments influence your creative process?
London was my first love. I moved there at 17 to study literature and film. My flat is filled to the ceiling with books, and houses my darkroom studio. In a way, London is where I do the ‘winter work’ – writing, filing negatives, walking into town to look at a Turner painting or to track down a specific Japanese photobook. Shooting in London is rare for me these days, the city feels too polished and pristine.
Athens has a different rhythm. It brims with texture and light. It’s playful. It’s saying yes to everything and then figuring out a way to do it afterwards. It’s staying up late and taking a 6AM ferry to an empty beach. I’ve met so many incredible people there, and the art scene always energizes me.
I could spend a lifetime trying to capture Greece and never run out of churches or islands to make a pilgrimage to.
What role does the concept of time play in your photography, particularly when
working with themes like memory and solitude?
My photographs never seem to take place in the present moment. They’re always referring to something in the past and dreaming about a potential future. They yearn for something just out of reach, almost close enough to touch. The present is a prism that disperses the light in either direction.
For me, longing is a source of energy. It’s forward-looking. It exists for its own sake entirely, without always a specific person or goal in mind. I still haven’t found the word that captures this state of existential yearning or Sehnsucht. Perhaps my photographs are my attempt at defining its outline.
What challenges have you encountered as a photographer and writer, and how
have you overcome them?
I grew up on a small fruit farm in Belgium, and even after years of education and establishing my art practice, I still sometimes feel like the odd one out. But it can be a source of strength above anything else. Living in London comes with its hurdles; surviving as an artist there is challenging. I’m still trying to find the balance between the freelance work that pays the bills and the creative work that feeds my soul.
What’s a photo you took that completely surprised you?
There’s a photo I took of my dog when I just got her as a puppy. She was nine weeks old, wobbling around because her front left leg is much shorter than her right. At that point, we were essentially still strangers, but the look in her eyes is already that of pure adoration towards me. The image captures a moment of unconditional love. It’s precious and pure. I was so surprised to see it distilled in one photograph.
What does photographic happiness look like to you?
Spring on an island. Still too cold to swim, but the light already moves around the house with abandon. There might be a silk dress on the bed or a cat at the door or a lover waiting on the mainland. It’s the first frame on a fresh roll of film. Everything is on the cusp of blooming.
For me, photographic joy lies in the act of creating; the result is almost secondary.
How do you see your photography and writing evolving in the coming years?
I believe in not speaking about unfinished work until it’s done and out in the world, but I’m very excited about the projects I’m working on.
In the longer term, I’m keen to see where the next adventures take me – whether it’s travel, love, a family, who knows. I’ll always approach my work through a diaristic lens, so my projects will invariably grow with me in those directions, which is exciting.
I look forward to broadening my focus, but I’ll always stay curious, and travel light.
