My father was an art photographer.
He didn’t just take photos—he showed me how to see the world through his eyes.He was also passionate about drawing and painting, often spending hours at his easel, surrounded by brushes, canvases, and a wide array of colorful paints. On top of that..he also wrote poetry, combining visual artistry with a love for language, making him a remarkably well-rounded creative talent.

He taught me how to develop photographs in the darkroom, the DOKA, where images slowly appeared like memories coming to life.

When I was a child, he took me to museums. A lot of museums.
And to be honest… I didn’t like it at all.
But what I didn’t realise was that he wasn’t just showing me art—he was teaching me how to observe, how to feel, how to notice stories in silence.

Later in life, I didn’t realise I would pick up the same craft. Not as a photographer, but as a filmmaker.

It was something that had been in me from the start—ingrained from childhood, running through my veins, something I now feel I have to use.

And that is where my story began. And then.. there was a sad flipside.