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On Light and Photography

Who are you, Photography? A question that echoes into the unknown, yet how else could I begin? How else could I attempt to speak to the light?

I immerse myself in its world, trying to bring it to the surface—translating it into words, shaping it into meaning. It is an impossible task. To seize light is to trespass upon the infinite, to sift through the silent mystery of existence itself.

But do you remember the shooting stars? Take them—millions of them—knead them in your palms, and then, as innocently as a child, toss them back into the universe. From that scattering, worlds are born. Somewhere within, a sliver of light holds my world, and the light within me. Light is not just illumination; it is revelation. It sculpts, it whispers, it unveils. Yet, I do not trust shapes and colors—I do not even know if they truly exist beyond perception. I do not believe in the morality of forms, in the dogma of formless words, nor in the finality of light itself. I press the shutter, reaching into infinite worlds—even my own—and they fall, tumbling through a child’s fingers, settling into the silver permanence of time. Each image, a fragment of soul captured in light.

Then, I close the shutter. Darkness returns to the hands of the lightless child.

What does this have to do with photography?
Everything.

This is how I feel. This is my creed. This is about light.