The cycle leading to an exhibition or a photobook is roughly 500 rolls of film. Once I surpass the 5,000-shot mark, the individual works begin to connect spontaneously, like the firing of synaptic pathways.
This process drives a vertical wedge into the horizontal expanse of time and space. It feels as though a fissure is tearing through the photographic strata—layers accumulated like a mille-feuille. These fault lines run at angles I never envisioned while shooting, reaching depths I never expected. When they do, works that lay buried and forgotten in the past emerge like fossils. I find myself dancing with joy at these unforeseen harvests.
It feels as though a new neural circuit, possessing both intensity and speed, is coming to life. It is my conviction that photographs—rather than following the artist’s intent—expand their own creative space through their mutual interaction. This time, as always, the work is manifesting that theory of its own accord.