SEXPERIMENTAL
Artist Book
10 Unique Variations
Signed & Numbered
Price on Request

I didn’t set out to make a book.
At first, I was just collecting things—photographs, notes, conversations, ideas, moments that stayed with me longer than they should have. Over time, they started connecting to each other.

Somewhere along the way, Sexperimental became more than a photography project. It turned into a space where different parts of my work could meet: images, writing, imagination, memories, questions, and stories that may or may not be true.

I never wanted this book to feel polished or overly finished. I wanted it to feel alive.

You can open it from the beginning, the middle, or the end. There’s no right way to read it. Every page leads somewhere different. In a way, this book is less about answers and more about exploration.

The title is Sexperimental for a reason. It’s an experiment. And it still is.

It began almost unnoticed.

Around seven, the bar at Laperouse filled softly. Shadows stretching along the walls. Music low, restrained, leaving space for anticipation to form. People arrived without urgency, eyes adjusting, curiosity slowly sharpening.

Then something shifted.

Ten books. One salon.
The room exhaled. Time loosened its grip.

Pages opened. Bodies leaned closer. Everyone chose their own tempo, their own entry point. No instructions. No center. Just drifting inward.

The femmes fatales moved through the crowd in Maison Close pieces. Not performing. Not asking. Simply passing by—skin, fabric, proximity. A glance dropped like a match. A spoon of caviar offered as if it were a private signal. You noticed yourself turning your head too late.

The music stopped being sound.
Deeply Dstrbd. Ivan Dorn. Stas.
It carried the room downward—slower, denser—somewhere between a pulse and a confession.

And then the collapse.

People gave in, one by one.
That oxygen-thin feeling. Eyes brighter. Breathing altered. It was impossible to locate the source—books, music, bodies, glances. Everything blended. It wasn’t falling for someone. It was falling into something.

By then, there was no edge to the night.

It didn’t end.
It opened.
Unbuttoned itself.

And stayed.

A year ago, I presented Sexperimental for the first time and now it’s back. This time in a gallery in Le Marais, Paris. Not for one evening, but for an entire week. The project is still the same, but so am I—and at the same time, I’m not.

Over the past year, I went back to all ten books. I revisited them, reworked them, questioned them, and looked at them through everything I’ve experienced since they were first shown.

I wasn’t interested in improving them. I was interested in understanding them. Some projects give you answers. This one keeps asking new questions.

The more time I spend with Sexperimental, the less it feels like a collection of books and the more it feels like a living conversation between photography, writing, memory, imagination, and desire.

The women remain at the center of everything. Not as subjects, but as muses, catalysts, and mirrors. Every story, image, and emotion begins there.

And femme fatale was never just an aesthetic for me. It’s a presence. A tension. Something impossible to fully explain but instantly recognizable when you feel it.

This exhibition isn’t really about looking at books.
It’s about stepping inside the world behind them.
The thoughts, doubts, obsessions, fantasies, and contradictions that exist before an idea becomes clear.

Some things became sharper over time. Others became more mysterious. I stopped trying to simplify them. Instead, I followed them deeper.

What you’ll find here is not a finished statement. It’s a process still unfolding. An invitation to slow down, wander through the layers, and maybe discover something that connects with your own experience.
Because Sexperimental was never just a book. It’s a doorway into a certain state of mind.

And at the center of it all is still the same thing that started it in the first place: falling in love with life.