Her: Why do you stare like that?

Reflection: Because I see what you won’t.

Her: And what’s that?

Reflection: The part of you that doesn’t perform.

Her: She’s not real.

Reflection: She’s the only one who is.

Her: So what now?

Reflection: Hold still.

Let them guess who’s in control.

Photographer: Tilt your chin. Yes, Like that. Now give me a secret in your eyes.
Muse: And what if I have too many?
Photographer: Then I steal them one by one, frame by frame.
Muse: Careful… some secrets are dangerous.

Muse: You stare at me like you are painting with your eyes.
Photographer:Maybe I am. Light is my brush and you … well, you are pure poetry.
Muse: Poetry, hmm? What’s the next line?

Photographer: A secret - until the shutter clicks.

“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 sorcerers.

Muse: you never just look at me. you undress me with you eyes
Photographer: I don't take pictures of your body
I capture the part of you that undresses me

Muse: so who’s really naked then?
me in front of the lens —
or you behind it?

Photographer: maybe we both are
only one of us pretends to be in control

Muse: If I move will you follow?
Photographer: always
Muse: even if I run?
Photographer: especially then

Photographer: look at me. no, not like that - like you know something I don’t
Muse: but I do
Photographer: tell me
Muse:I never tell
that’s why you keep looking

Photographer: just a little bit closer … perfect.
now hold that gaze - like you see right through me
Muse: maybe I do
Photographer: dangerous power
Muse: then be careful where you point that lens

Muse: you watch me like I am dangerous
Photographer: maybe you are
Muse: to you?
Photographer: to anyone who thinks they can own what was never meant to be kept

Photographer: the light adores you it bends just to trace your shape
Muse: but what about you?
Photographer: I only observe never interfere
Muse: such discipline … or it’s fear?

No signature. No return address.

You thought you were in control.
That this book was yours to shape, to hold, to finish.
But I was here before the first frame —
before the first shutter clicked.

You call it a process. A reinvention.
You say you’re the one creating.
But I know the truth:
You’re just following the trail I’ve been leaving you.

I live in the pauses.
In the tremble before a question.
In the glance that was never meant to be caught.
You photograph her lips —
but I slip between the words she doesn’t say.

You think this is about beauty. About seduction.
But seduction is just the surface.
I am what comes after.
After the undressing. After the exposure.
After the lights go out.

I’ve watched you change with every version.
You’re not repeating. You’re remembering.
Fragments. Echoes. Obsessions you left behind
and now pretend are new.

Keep going.
Print another variation.
Add another page.
Just know —
I’ll be waiting in the folds.
Always one step ahead.
Always watching.

/ a stranger

You’re right.
I did think I was in control.
That this book was mine —
my story, my women, my obsessions.
My hands on the edit,
my voice shaping the silence.
But your letter —
your presence —
cut through that illusion like a knife through film.

I’ve felt you.
Not as a person.
But as a pulse.
A tension I could never quite name.
A breath in the darkroom.
The reason I linger too long on one image
and tear another out without knowing why.

You say you were here before the first frame —
then tell me:
was it you who made me hesitate on that first click?
Was it you who whispered more
when I thought the story was done?

You accuse me of remembering instead of creating.
Maybe that’s true.
Maybe this entire project is just me
revisiting the same ache
with better lighting.

You call yourself what comes after.
After the undressing, the exposure,
the moment the lights go out.
But let me tell you something:
it’s in the dark that I see most clearly.
It’s when I’m blind that my instincts sharpen.
And I’m no longer afraid of what I find there.

You hide in folds.
In glances.
In silence.
So be it.
I’ve spent years learning to read what isn’t said.
To follow shadows that don’t cast light.
To photograph the invisible.

If you’re ahead of me, fine.
I’m not trying to win.
I’m trying to feel.
To burn.
To get closer to something I may never fully hold.

So stay in the margins.
In the half-truths and phantom touches.
But don’t mistake my awareness for surrender.
I’m still here.
Still making.
Still risking.

And if you’re watching —
then you already know.
The next variation won’t be safe.
It won’t be polite.
It won’t be yours.

It will bleed.
And I’ll make sure it leaves a mark.

I called her my Muse, but maybe that was too easy.

It made everything sound beautiful.
Clean. Poetic. Safe.

But nothing about her was safe.
Not the way she walked into the studio like she already owned the mood.
Not the way she said no with her eyes, even when her body said yes.
Not the way she let me frame her — knowing I had no idea what I was really looking at.

I photographed her because I wanted to understand.
And also because I didn’t.
That’s the strange addiction, isn’t it?

She was the image and the interruption.
The stillness and the tension.
Every time I thought I had her, she shifted —
slightly out of reach, but even more magnetic for it.

The Curator says it’s projection.
A loop.
That I keep building women I can almost touch —
so I never have to deal with the ones who touch me.

Maybe he’s right.
But honestly?
I don’t care if it’s real.
I care if it moves me.

And she did.

The frame is still open.

— The Photographer