Street photography is often described as spontaneous, even accidental. You speak about it almost as a discipline. Why? Because spontaneity is deceptive. What people see as a “lucky moment” is usually the result of hours of waiting, walking, observing, and failing. Street photography demands patience, restraint, and a constant sharpening of awareness. You don’t chase moments. You prepare yourself so that when they appear, you’re ready.
What draws you so strongly to capturing the moment?
A moment is the only thing that truly exists. It doesn’t repeat. It doesn’t explain itself. The street offers fragments of life that will never align in exactly the same way again. A glance, a pause, a collision of light and movement. When I photograph, I’m not documenting events. I’m acknowledging that this second existed at all.
You started very young. How did that shape your way of seeing?
I began photographing when I was nine years old, entirely analog. Film teaches patience. You learn to trust intuition because you can’t immediately see the result. Every frame matters. That discipline never left me. Even now, with digital tools, I still photograph with the mindset of film. I don’t overshoot. I wait.
At some point, technology changed everything for you.
Yes. After I sold my company, I allowed myself to buy a ridiculously expensive first digital camera. It felt almost irresponsible at the time. But that purchase changed my world completely. Suddenly, the feedback loop between seeing, thinking, and photographing accelerated. I began to experiment more freely. Digital didn’t make photography easier for me, it made thinking unavoidable. I had to redefine my relationship with the image.
Did your style change as well?
Absolutely. Developing a personal signature is brutal work. You strip away influences, habits, tricks that once worked. And just when you think you’re getting close, you realize you’re never finished. Every click refines your style, but also questions it. That tension is what keeps the work alive. The moment you think you’ve arrived, you’ve stopped looking.
Your recent work feels quieter, almost meditative, despite being shot in busy urban environments.
That’s intentional. I’m trying to capture silence within daily violence. Not physical violence alone, but the constant assault of noise, speed, information, and expectation. Streets are loud, visually and mentally. Yet within that chaos, there are pockets of stillness. Someone lost in thought. A body moving while the mind pauses. That’s where I aim my camera.
Is street photography a form of escape for you?
Not escape, but grounding. Being absorbed in observation pulls me out of the relentless pace of societal change. The world is constantly shouting: conflict, power struggles, meaningless wars, endless ambition. On the street, none of that matters in the same way. People are simply being human. Walking, waiting, worrying, loving. Photographing those moments reminds me what actually matters.
You often mention invisibility. What do you mean by that?
To photograph honestly, you must disappear. The less you impose yourself, the more reality reveals itself. I blend into the street, becoming just another element. When people stop noticing you, gestures become real. That’s when form and emotion align.
What do you hope viewers take away from your work?
I don’t want answers. I want attention. I want viewers to slow down, to recognize that meaning often hides in plain sight. Street photography isn’t about spectacle. It’s about presence. About standing still long enough to feel connected to your surroundings, and perhaps to yourself.
Finally, what keeps you going?
The knowledge that the next moment hasn’t happened yet. And when it does, it will never happen again.