In the concepts/projects “Landscapes” "Water" "Communication"  I focus fundamentally on the times we live in.

 

This work exists of photographic material. The pictures are not always sharp, have a strong roughness, and show brutality. Sometimes even the remains of the manipulation can be seen.

These raw externals of the pictures seamlessly fade into the raw, partially deconstructed society. This work is created in the context of a degenerative era.

The economic implosion, the multi-ethnic problems, and the sociological impact of changing life patterns.

Landscapes are stripped of their monotonous, predictable aesthetics and make place for different surprising aesthetics.

What remains fascinating is the creation of "the image" and its relation to reality.

How we react to images is mostly the result of automatisms (oh's and ah's), in other words: the image has become corrupted.

It is a very subjective process where I work associative: infectious associations that are not finite.

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About multilayeredness

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Multilayeredness is an essential condition.  Either way, a work must encourage reflection, thought, release, and experience of emotions.  It is the multilayeredness that keeps you attached to the work and makes you doubt whether you would leave the work or not

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About communication

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Does it matter

how the word expectation is pronounced?

Or that its sound pattern is different from that of the word desire?

 

And is desire a long-held expectation?

Or is it just the other way around?

 

This is why, I can never mean

what you mean

You can never say what I say:

 

my syntax has become abstract.

 

And maybe it is also why

my words crumble

before they even reach you.

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On boundaries and limitations

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We draw boundaries against what

we don't know.

We draw boundaries against emotions that

get too close.

We draw boundaries against what

we don't understand.

We draw boundaries when others behave differently.

We draw boundaries against things

we don't recognize.

 

By limiting ourselves, we

also, limit others.

By limiting others, we

also, limit ourselves.

From within such limitations

we communicate

in a predictable and therefore

automated way:

our vocabularies are uniform

 

I can counter your every word

 

My language, unrecognizable, becomes incomprehensible:

The unsayable

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About The Unsayable

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The Unsayable

 

Is where the black lines are.

They are where they are, immovable

and nobly beautiful.

But they are not sentences,

not words, not even letters and

certainly not sounds.

Language has been exchanged for lines,

black stripes.

The unsayable as such,

beautifully and carefully presented to you.

 

We just have to accept it.

You just have to accept it.

I,

I will just have to accept it

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About  the Beautiful Borders Series

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Boundaries are presented metaphorically.

There are also physical limitations such as curtains, doors, walls, windows and sometimes they have a strange beauty. It is the deceptive beauty that makes you focus on the boundary and while you do see the relative of such beauty.

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Boundaries are present everywhere—both seen and unseen.
Curtains, doors, walls, and windows shape our physical world, yet they also carry a quiet, deceptive beauty. They draw our attention, not only as structures but as symbols. Their elegance can mislead us into focusing solely on the surface, while the true meaning lies beneath: boundaries define, restrict, guide, and reveal.

In art, these boundaries become metaphors. They reflect the limits we encounter internally and externally—emotional, spatial, social, or personal. They appear in countless forms, sometimes subtle, sometimes stark. By isolating and “stilling” these architectural elements, the work invites the viewer to contemplate how boundaries shape perception, movement, and understanding. In every frame, the threshold becomes both subject and symbol, reminding us that boundaries are everywhere, and their significance extends far beyond their physical presence.

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The Valley

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These haunting photographs captures the monumental Valley of Cuelgamuros, close to Madrid, in a moment of profound ambiguity, serving as the apotheosis of Spain's ongoing struggle with its contested past. Through the atmospheric haze, Franco's colossal cross and basilica emerge as spectral forms, their imposing presence both undeniable and somehow ephemeral—much like the disputed legacy they represent.

These images brilliantly encapsulates the tension between remembrance and erasure. The monument looms large yet appears almost dissolving, mirroring Spain's conflicted relationship with this site: neither fully confronted nor completely forgotten. The muted, almost monochromatic palette strips away any triumphalism, presenting the architecture as neither heroic nor definitively condemned, but suspended in an uneasy liminal space.

In the foreground, the stark geometry of the valley's infrastructure grounds the composition in material reality, while the obscured monument above exists in an uncertain, fog-bound realm—a visual metaphor for how historical memory can be simultaneously tangible and elusive. This atmospheric veil transforms Franco's intended symbol of eternal power into something transient, questioning the permanence of any political legacy.

The photographs refuses to provide easy answers, instead embodying the very conflict it documents: between those who see this as a place of reconciliation requiring preservation and those who view it as a monument to dictatorship demanding transformation. In these climactic images, the valley exists in perpetual tension—neither monument nor ruin, neither forgotten nor fully reckoned with—reflecting Spain's ongoing negotiation with the shadows of its authoritarian past and the question of what democratic memory should preserve, transform, or let fade into history.

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The commercialization of art, particularly Rothko

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The Commercialization of Rothko: Between Contemplation and Consumption

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Can we still view Rothko's work independently of its commercialization?

Mark Rothko dreamed of an art that would transform the viewer, offering spiritual experience in a world increasingly dominated by materialism. His monumental color fields were conceived as meditations, as spaces for inner contemplation. But nearly sixty years after his death, his work seems trapped in a paradox: how do you preserve the spiritual essence of art that is increasingly defined by its commercial value?

The Silence of Houston

In the Rothko Chapel in Houston, where fourteen monumental canvases envelop the visitor in an almost tangible silence, you still experience something of Rothko's original intention. Here, in contemplative solitude, the deep purples and blacks speak their own language. They demand time, patience, surrender. These are works that reveal their secrets only to those willing to slow down, to listen to what remains unspoken.

This experience – alone with the work, without crowds, without smartphone flashes – is becoming increasingly rare. In American museums, one can often still view Rothko's paintings in relative peace, but this privilege feels fragile, as though it could disappear at any moment under pressure from the art market and tourism.

The Circus of Paris

This rupture became painfully clear during the Rothko exhibition at the Fondation Louis Vuitton in 2024. Here, the artist was presented as a luxury brand, his work framed by Frank Gehry's architectural extravagance and LVMH's commercial power. The exhibition drew masses of visitors who consumed Rothko as a cultural product, an Instagram moment, a status symbol.

It was Rothko as circus: spectacular, accessible, but stripped of its essence. Where his work demands silence, it received spectacle. Where it yearns for contemplation, it got consumption. The irony was almost palpable: an artist who struggled throughout his life with the commercialization of art became posthumously the ultimate commercial product.

The Impossible Question

Can we still see Rothko independently of his commercial value? The answer is complex. The art market has transformed his work from spiritual objects into financial instruments. When a Rothko is worth hundreds of millions of dollars, it becomes nearly impossible to look at it purely. Every brushstroke carries the weight of speculation, every color transition is measured in market value.

Yet something untouchable remains in his finest works. Under the right circumstances – in the silence of a museum early in the morning, in the meditative space of the Chapel – his paintings can still exert their original power. They can still transform, move, compel contemplation.

The Paradox of Accessibility

Commercialization has paradoxically made Rothko both more accessible and less accessible. More people than ever know his name, his work hangs as posters in student rooms worldwide. But simultaneously, the commercial machinery has erected barriers between the public and the genuine experience of his art.

Rothko wanted his work to function as a drug – a means of consciousness transformation. Instead, it has often devolved into decoration, cultural capital, a marker of refined taste. The question is whether we, knowing what we know about the art market and its mechanisms, can still find the innocence to surrender ourselves to his work.

Conclusion: The Viewer's Responsibility

Perhaps the answer lies not with the art world, but with ourselves as viewers. In an age when everything becomes commercialized, experiencing art as it was intended becomes a conscious choice. It requires courage to slow down in a world that accelerates, to pause before what cannot be bought in works that seem to have everything for sale.

Rothko's legacy depends on our willingness to resist market logic, to see his paintings as more than investment or decoration. In every encounter with his work, we can choose: do we consume, or do we allow ourselves to be transformed? That choice, however small, determines whether Rothko's dream of spiritual art survives in our commercialized world.

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URBAN FRAGMENTS: NEW YORK RECONSIDERED

Series American Despair

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This collection of eleven photographs, captured in the concrete canyons of New York City, has been deliberately reprocessed and recontextualized to mirror our troubled political landscape. Each image serves as a visual metaphor for the collective anxiety and disillusionment that permeates contemporary society.

Where once these streets symbolized opportunity and progress, they now reveal shadows of uncertainty. Familiar landmarks transform into monuments of division. The harsh urban geometry—once celebrating human achievement—now frames our political fragmentation.

The manipulated contrasts and altered perspectives invite viewers to confront uncomfortable realities. Buildings loom ominously, crowds appear isolated despite their numbers, and even moments of light are tempered by encroaching darkness. This is New York as a reflection of our fractured political discourse, where hope and despair exist in perpetual tension.

Through this visual exploration, we are challenged to recognize our shared vulnerability and perhaps find paths toward reconciliation within the very spaces that now embody our deepest concerns.

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The Architecture of Silence in Contemporary Photography

Series Silent Photography

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In an age saturated with images, where visual noise often overwhelms perception, there is a growing necessity for works that resist immediacy and instead invite stillness. Photography that engages with architectural silence occupies a unique position within contemporary visual culture. It does not seek to document human presence, but rather explores the traces, absences, and structures that remain when human activity withdraws. These images become spaces of pause—visual environments that allow contemplation to unfold.

This body of work operates within that landscape. Through interior architectural perspectives, static frames, and controlled compositions, it transforms ordinary structural elements such as windows, walls, or grids into meditations on perception itself. The architecture is not simply a subject; it becomes a stage for sensory and psychological experience. The emptiness present in these images is not a lack — it is an active presence. Silence is treated not as void, but as density: a concentration of spatial awareness.

The recurring use of symmetry and framing serves as both a formal and conceptual anchor. These visual structures create a controlled environment where light, geometry, and distance become the primary language. The viewer is positioned not as a passive observer, but as an inhabitant of the frame — standing at the threshold between interior and exterior, familiarity and distance. The window, in particular, becomes a recurring metaphor: a portal through which perception is filtered, obstructed, and shaped. It is an opening that paradoxically emphasizes separation.

By removing narrative and human presence, these works resist storytelling in the traditional sense. Instead, they offer states of experience. The viewer is invited to slow down, to notice subtle transitions in tone, texture, and spatial tension. The grayscale palette reinforces this restraint, stripping away distraction and reducing the visual world to its essential elements: light, shadow, and form. In doing so, the images evoke a sense of timelessness, as though they exist outside of any specific moment.

This type of photography aligns with broader traditions in minimalism and architectural abstraction, yet it diverges through its emotional resonance. It is not purely formal; it carries psychological weight. The quiet atmosphere, the contained spaces, and the sense of distant structures suggest themes of isolation, contemplation, and introspection. These images do not impose meanings but offer conditions for meaning to emerge. They act as visual meditation objects — spaces where the mind can wander without demand.

In contemporary life, where speed and distraction dominate, such work creates a counterpoint. It refuses urgency. It asks for attention, patience, and silence from the viewer. The viewer is not entertained; they are absorbed. The absence of spectacle becomes the strength of the work. Through architectural stillness, the photographs create a kind of visual refuge — a place where gaze, time, and space briefly align.

Ultimately, this kind of work is less about representing reality than about creating a space for perception. It is not documentation; it is invitation. The structures depicted might be real, but what they offer is internal: a moment of pause in a world of acceleration.

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