The day I started to put one image next to another on the table, I did not know what I would find in that gesture, the possibility of a writing. Today, that writing has become the place I inhabit. The photography I practice has its origin in the intimate. The fable or the tearing of the everyday is transformed into stories, that is the origin of my Diary(s) and also of those assemblages that I call Geographies.
With them, the chapters continue to be filled with that question that never ceases to echo in my head and which I still cannot answer, at least not completely, because sometimes I can barely read it. And it is in it, that words like memory, root, trace, house, oblivion, tree, repeatedly reappear and disappear throughout my work.