The angst of abandonment, death, desolation and fragility, circle my head as my worst thoughts and constantly I wonder, could they become real?
Isn’t photography a document? Then why shooting something that never happened? I try to make stories up from which I wish I could escape.
My self-portraits show the constant preoccupation of living in this belligerent and violent world, it seems that the only thing left is to look inside and guilt corrodes me and makes me realize that I am a doubtfully daydreamer but above all I’m vulnerable.
At the end I am so absurd that I sometimes feel that all those fears have been nurtured by me when I read bloodshed news, a hidden fascination of mine, a mixture of morbid thoughts and horror, this way I end up thinking, this never happened to me.
Then I come back questioning, what if that is me? My interest then grows and I face photography, without paying attention to the results, fear was there, beside me, under that sheet, in my death after the accident, when I hanged myself to that tree and when I saw my clothes after abandonment.
I transform those spaces to change their context, to make them as mine as my memories, memories of what has been, or memories of what took place when I shot the picture, and in this way I mitigate my fears so they won’t annihilate me.