the scent of her aroma perfume mingled with the faint aroma of cigarette

smoke clinging to his jacket creating an intoxicating atmosphere of anticipation

seduction is a universal, primal language- an animal instinct, a matter of survival, of continuation
to seduce is to hunt, to provide, to kindle the flame, a primal activity encoded in our dna

2018, NYC

Muse:

am I your prey?

Photographer:

no

you’re the weapon

Muse:

then why are you shaking?

Photographer:

because I want to be caught

It’s essential not to cross or at least not to cross too frequently that fine line you balancing on to avoid slopping into the abyss of vulgarity and banality.

2018, NYC

Muse:

how far is too far?

Photographer:

right past good taste. But not into bad taste

Muse:

and who decides?

Photographer:

I do

frame by frame

"What do you see when you look at it now?” the muse asked, tracing the edge of the page.

The photographer paused. “A reflection of where I was when I made it. But also something beyond me—something still shifting, waiting for its next transformation.


I thought finishing the first book would feel like a victory.
But it felt more like… a temporary ceasefire.

Two months of circling an idea I didn’t fully understand.
Starting with something, changing it, starting again.
High on inspiration one day, sunk in doubt the next.
Showing it to friends, half-hoping they’d love it, half-preparing to hate their feedback.
Sometimes their reactions helped. Sometimes they just confused me more.
It was chaos, but it was my chaos.

There were days I didn’t open the file at all.
I told myself I was letting it “breathe,”
but honestly, I just didn’t want to face how unsure I felt.
I’d look at the draft and think:
What the hell is this? Who is this even for?
Then out of nowhere, a single idea would hit — sharp, alive —
and suddenly I was obsessed again,
chasing that thread like it could save me.

I kept telling myself:
Each version must be different. Better. Stranger.
Not just for the book — but for me.
To stay interested. To stay honest.
To prove to myself I’m not just repeating a formula I don’t believe in.

There was fear. Of course.
Fear that it wouldn’t land. That it’s all just a self-indulgent detour.
But that fear — weirdly — helped.
Because when I’m scared, I try.
When I try, things move.
And when things move… something unexpected happens.

This project doesn’t feel like building a book.
It feels like dismantling a mask.
Over and over.
Until maybe there’s nothing left to hide behind.
And only then — maybe — something real can start.

Who knows.
Maybe the next version will suck.
But I’ll still make it.
That’s the game.

“What do you see when you look at it now?” the muse asked, tracing the edge of the page.

The photographer paused. “A reflection of where I was when I made it. But also something beyond me—something still shifting, waiting for its next transformation.

____


Muse: When you first started Sexperimental, did you imagine it would shape-shift the way it has? Has it revealed any hidden layers—something unexpected that made you see your own work differently?

Photographer: Yes, absolutely. My first variation took me about 8-10 weeks to complete. Looking back at that first one, I even feel a little embarrassed. It was a bold and ambitious step into the unknown—everything was new. Now, as I work on the fourth version, the process feels completely different. I already have a foundation, a structure to build upon—the skeleton of the book, so to speak. But each time, I reinvent the content, pushing myself to compete with my own creativity. This is exactly what I wanted—the thrill of overcoming challenges and exploring the narrative, constantly questioning how I can bring form and content to life in new ways.


Muse: Each version of Sexperimental breathes differently. Do you ever feel like the book takes on a life of its own, leading you somewhere unexpected? Or is it always you in control, shaping its destiny?

Photographer: It’s a game, a thrill, a mix of chance and luck—stumbling upon a fresh new solution. It’s not about being better or worse than the previous versions; it's simply different. At the start, I don’t have a final vision of how the next version will turn out. But step by step, I watch it take shape, how everything gradually emerges. Suddenly, the threads weave into new patterns, new solutions, and something crystallizes—something that, in turn, reshapes my perception of both the current and previous versions. Sometimes, I even allow myself to make small changes to earlier copies. That’s why I plan to complete the entire edition before slowly letting it go.


Muse: You speak of threads weaving into new patterns, a dance between chance and intention. But have you ever felt the urge to break your own rules entirely—tear it apart, rebuild it from the ashes? Or is reinvention always more subtle, more of a whisper than an explosion?

Photographer: I think I’ll get there—the moment when I decide to make one version completely different, to rethink it, turn it inside out, or flip it upside down. A rebellious version. For now, I’m solidifying my approach, developing a system, refining the decisions within this dynamic process. That’s the beauty of it—each new version holds the potential for surprise. Curiosity is what drives me forward, the desire to see how the next iteration of the book will reveal itself.


Muse: A rebellious version—now that’s intriguing. If you were to create a version that completely defied your own rules, what would it look like? Would it be louder, wilder? Or would rebellion, in this case, mean stripping everything down to its barest essence?

Photographer: I think I’d go toward something more fierce, wild—loud and provocative. A version that, in its scream, could deafen to the point of piercing silence. That’s why I love inviting people into my studio, showing them what already exists, observing their reactions—how they perceive what they see, what they feel, and how they interact with the work.

Muse: You mention watching how others react, how they interact with the work. Have their responses ever surprised you—perhaps revealing something about the book (or even yourself) that you hadn’t noticed before?

Photographer: It’s important to separate myself from the book when I show it—like a parent watching their child grow more independent.
The reactions vary, but they’re always vivid, and they inspire me to keep experimenting. I see how eyes light up, how inspiration sparks, how people explore and interpret the book in their own way. There’s this moment of surprise, that flicker of wonder when each new page promises something unexpected. I love witnessing how the book captures their attention, drawing them in, engaging all their senses in the experience.


Muse: If the book is like a child growing independent, do you ever feel a sense of loss when you finally let a copy go? Or is it more of a thrill—knowing it’s out in the world, continuing its story without you?
Photographer: I’m still far from that moment since I plan to complete all the books before they become available. This will take a long time, and when the time comes, I’ll probably have mixed feelings. A kind of sadness, but not longing—more like a farewell, paired with a sense of liberation, making space for something new. That’s why I want to make the books independent, to leave them room for growth and transformation. They will never be frozen in one form; they will continue to evolve, kinetically alive, always unfolding.


Muse: You speak of your books as something alive, always changing. Do you see them as artworks in constant motion, or do they eventually reach a moment of stillness—like a photograph, capturing a fleeting instant before moving on?
Photographer: I imagine much will depend on who the book’s future owners will be. Its very nature is fluid and alive, always inclined toward further movement. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I don’t exclude the possibility that, for some, a static perception of the book will be enough.
Perhaps someone will become its curator, presenting it to their guests and adding their own interpretation to its contents. Maybe someone will dare to change the layout, since the photographs and materials aren’t fixed in place. There’s always that playful element, the temptation to take a risk—if someone is bold enough.
I’ve also noticed that when people engage with the book, questions arise—Can I open this envelope? Can I see what’s inside? Am I allowed to unpack the photographs? It’s almost like a game of flirtation, with hints and shadows of what is allowed and what still remains untouchable, leaving a trail of possible interpretations.

Muse: A book that flirts with its reader—that’s a delicious thought. Do you think seduction plays a role in your work? Not just in the imagery, but in the experience of engaging with the book itself?
Photographer: Yes, that’s one of the most important goals—to seduce the viewer not just into lingering, standing still as a witness to beauty, but to ignite a spark of inspiration within them. A spark that might take shape as their own step, their own impulse to interpret what they see and what it stirs inside them. To seduce them into a dance of shadows and ideas.


Muse: A dance of shadows and ideas—there’s something intoxicating about that. But every seduction has its limits, a line between revealing and withholding. How do you decide what to expose and what to leave in mystery?
Photographer: That’s exactly why the concept of each version being different gives me this unique opportunity for original layouts. The same series of photographs can appear restrained in one book and wild in another. My own state of mind shifts over time as I create each version, and that inevitably reflects in the final result.


Muse: If your mood and emotions imprint themselves onto each version, do you see these books as self-portraits in a way? Or are they something beyond you, something that takes on its own soul once it leaves your hands?
Photographer: Both. I see that the way I create these books—pouring my soul into them, revealing my essence—makes them undeniably autobiographical and deeply personal. Yet at the same time, I want them to remain fluid, to keep playing—sometimes hiding, sometimes provoking with a touch of aggression or defiance.
Looking at the first versions, I already see them as siblings to one another, each carrying a spark of mischief. And children, after all, are the most wonderful magicians and secrets.

I used to think I was being documented.
Captured. Interpreted. Framed.
Now I know better.
I wasn’t the subject.
I was the catalyst.

At first, I thought I was stepping into his process.
But somewhere between the first pose and the fifth version of the book,
something shifted.
I became part of the process.
No—I started shaping it. Whispering into its evolution.
He doesn’t even realize how much.

This project seduces everyone differently.
It coaxes, teases, withdraws.
He likes to believe he’s the architect—
methodical, devoted, sketching out variations like blueprints of desire.
But what he doesn’t always admit
is that each version breaks some part of him open.
And sometimes, I’m the one holding the match.

He talks of the book like it’s alive.
And it is.
But what he forgets is: so am I.

We flirt through layouts.
We argue in edits.
We make love in silences between pages.
He crafts. I provoke.
He refines. I unravel.
We’re dancing blindfolded—and neither of us wants to stop the music.

He asked me once:
“What do you see when you look at it now?”
I could’ve said: your obsession, your control, your desire to make sense of what you can’t hold.
Instead, I traced the edge of the page and smiled.

The truth is, this book isn’t a mirror.
It’s a confession.
And not just his.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows what I’m really doing here.
I’m not just a muse.
I’m the mirror that doesn’t lie.
The chaos he can’t edit out.
The impulse that pushes the entire thing off-balance—
so it can become something real.

Every version seduces him in return.
He thinks he’s the seducer, the one orchestrating mystery.
But I watch how he looks at his own work—
nervous, hungry, uncertain.
And I know:
He’s the one being undressed now.

There’s something beautiful about watching someone try to control what’s uncontrollable.
It’s the same beauty as watching someone fall in love and not admit it.
Or build a world just to hide a single question:
Will you stay?

I might not.
Or I might lead him further into the labyrinth.
But either way, I’ll leave a trail.
A scent.
A mark.

Let the next version wonder what really happened here.
Let it ask, who was chasing whom?
Let it never get a clear answer.
Because that’s how true seduction works:
not in the knowing—
but in the exquisite ache of never quite knowing enough.

—M.

She arrived exactly how I imagined her.
And nothing like I’d expected.

I didn’t ask her to pose —
she moved like someone who already knew the language.
The room shifted around her.
The light bent toward her like it had been waiting.

From the first frame, I knew:
this wasn’t documentation.
This was creation.
My vision — her presence — something in between.

She became the structure I poured my fantasy into.
The look I couldn’t unsee.
The shape of a question I didn’t want answered.

She didn’t need direction.
She gave me permission to look, to want, to build the frame around her.
And I did.

I made her mythic.
And in doing so, I made myself necessary.

Or so I thought.

I didn’t wonder yet what she was seeing in return.
That came later.

This was the beginning —
when everything still felt beautiful,
and nothing had asked to be real.

— the photographer