City speaks

Revealing to you

Here I am. Back at it. Talking about photography. About me. Maybe about you. A clean break, or maybe a dirty one. Creative pause or just survival mode. We’ll see.

The city hums below, restless, heavy with stories no one asked for. I’m standing in the middle of it, somewhere between who I was and who I might become. Fifty is creeping up fast. Damn. It crawls under the skin, whispers in your ear at night, telling you it’s time. Time for what? Change? Destruction? Reinvention? Probably all of it. The kind that rips you apart and stitches you back together with rougher threads.

There’s an itch now: to pull away. From habits, from patterns, from the safe loops I’ve circled too many times. Even in the middle of this creative high, projects boiling over, ideas spilling out, there’s a shift happening. A crack. And through it, something new is crawling out. Ugly. Beautiful. Honest.

I walk the streets, camera in hand, but less like a hunter now and more like a mirror. The city spits back at me. Faces, shapes, light bending wrong and right, moments that don’t care about composition or meaning. Street photography isn’t a genre: it’s a conversation. With you. Raw. Ugly. Real. It’s where the truth leaks through the cracks. And sometimes, that’s all you need.

I never really bought into the whole portrait photography dogma that inflated reverence, like we’re birthing something sacred every time we click the shutter. It's just a photograph. A fucking photograph. That’s all. And that’s enough. That’s where it starts.

I’m tired of the expectations. The polite nods. The internal monologues screaming, “They’ll love this one.” Screw that. I’m not here to give you what you want. Hell, I’m not even here to give me what I expect. I’m here to burn down what I built, just to see what rises from the ashes.

The city knows this feeling. It crumbles and rebuilds itself daily. Skyscrapers shadow over broken alleys. Everything’s in flux, but it still stands. That’s the art. The dissolve and the rise. Of myself too.

Photography doesn’t matter. It’s all the same if you strip it down. The only thing that matters is whether it bleeds. Whether it pulses. Whether it talks back. Who is revealing to you how is the life? Life through photography?

So here I am. In the middle of it. Chasing the dissolution. Letting the city, the streets, the light, the noise, the silence, all of this shit, cut through me. And maybe, just maybe, something honest will spill out.

Because in the end, I don’t need to make work that pleases you. I don’t even need to make work that pleases me. I need to make work that is.

Raw. Brutal. Alive.

The rest is just city noise.