Particles in a Time Machine

Oil prints made by hand using a 19th-century technique. Not images of things — images of feelings. Each work exists once, made of gelatin, cotton, ink and light. A resistance against speed, reproduction and forgetting.

I do not make images of things. I make images of feelings. For thirty years I worked with silver and digital techniques — precise languages that showed what was there, but not what I meant. Ten years ago I discovered oil printing: a 19th-century process using gelatin, bichromate, cotton paper and Japanese oil-based ink, applied by hand under UV light. It became the only technique capable of expressing what I had always been searching for — uncertainty, slowness, transience.

Every work is unique. Not as a marketing claim, but as technical reality. The manual ink application, the chemical variables, the temperature and humidity of the day make reproduction impossible. I print each image only once. After that, it exists, or it does not.

We are particles. Temporary appearances in a universe billions of years old. Our fears, our ambitions, our identities — they dissolve into something so much greater that it can barely be grasped. We live in cities, we look at screens, and slowly we lose contact with ourselves, with nature, with each other. What remains is a deep, silent disconnection. Not spectacular, not loud. Universal, but barely articulable.

We have forgotten that we are made of the same substance as the earth, the grass, the water. The boundary between human and surroundings does not really exist — it is something we have constructed ourselves. My work tries to make that visible. Not as accusation, not as therapy. As recognition.

In a world that copies, accelerates and forgets — every work is an act of resistance. Silent. Material. Undeniably present.