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These images that I’ve chosen to show don’t need much explanation. I thought that by finding an angle, a narrative, I would manage to move past exoticism. But sometimes, you just have to face the truth: I went on a trip, and I took photos. I love them very much. I really wanted to show them to you. I had an incredible experience, and I’d like to share a few moments of it with you: never before, nor since, have I taken so many photographs.
This is the memory I keep of it, and maybe I idealize it. Because I also remember this very well: I was thousands of kilometers from home, and yet I was thinking about exactly the same things that were on my mind just days before, when I was trying to calm my anxieties by ticking off boxes on my to-do lists. I knew I was living a unique and special moment, and I almost resented myself for not being fully present. I spent my days outside, wandering through the places I had chosen to see, entirely devoted to my camera and the moments I was experiencing. But there was almost always a small distance, a little voice in my head that couldn’t help but ask what the hell I was doing there, alone, setting aside the mess that is my life, to once again run away and take advantage of my privilege. At night, I didn’t sleep so well. I was afraid I might not be doing enough or that I might miss some things, afraid that I might once again be deceiving myself. I was photographing relentlessly, the camera between me and myself, a mask between me and the world. And in a tiny alleyway, as the temperature is rising, I’m seeking a rare patch of shade while wondering why I left the scene I wanted to capture, just as the element I was waiting for was entering my frame.
Yet I don’t believe the best images I’ve done are the ones that I’ve patiently composed. For the most part, they are like notes I took while I was passing by, without even thinking, because that quick moment felt so obvious , and then I moved on—to another street, another discovery, another photograph. A passer-by because I never really stayed very long, but also because I was not fully present, still floating around, and maybe, lost in my own bubble even more. There are many more things I would’ve like to see. Each place, I could’ve stayed a little longer, except maybe in Boukhara, in Uzbekistan, a city I’ve found to be inhospitable. Maybe also in these vast, untouched mountains in Kyrgyzstan. In the end, I traveled like a tourist, to temporarily escape my daily life and come back with new experiences, stories to tell and images to show.
Looking back, I realize that’s exactly what happened. I knew I was drawn to the streets, the people who inhabit them, the ordinary elements of their scenery; I discovered that I was also fascinated by empty spaces, by the traces that people leave behind. In Uzbekistan, it was those deserted alleyways, emptied by the crushing heat of a dry summer. In Kyrgyzstan, it was the ghostly, half- abandoned Soviet sites, where a few rare inhabitants still linger, like specters of a bygone era. And then, as my journey went on, the little voice—the one that kept asking what I was doing there—began to quiet down. I started sleeping better. It happened naturally, without me really noticing. Maybe it was because, toward the end, I no longer felt alone. And then I boarded the plane and went home. It only took two days for them to return in full force. I was just passing by and thought I could leave my anxieties behind, I came back with the obviousness of their weight.
This is the memory I keep of it, and maybe I idealize it. Because I also remember this very well: I was thousands of kilometers from home, and yet I was thinking about exactly the same things that were on my mind just days before, when I was trying to calm my anxieties by ticking off boxes on my to-do lists. I knew I was living a unique and special moment, and I almost resented myself for not being fully present. I spent my days outside, wandering through the places I had chosen to see, entirely devoted to my camera and the moments I was experiencing. But there was almost always a small distance, a little voice in my head that couldn’t help but ask what the hell I was doing there, alone, setting aside the mess that is my life, to once again run away and take advantage of my privilege. At night, I didn’t sleep so well. I was afraid I might not be doing enough or that I might miss some things, afraid that I might once again be deceiving myself. I was photographing relentlessly, the camera between me and myself, a mask between me and the world. And in a tiny alleyway, as the temperature is rising, I’m seeking a rare patch of shade while wondering why I left the scene I wanted to capture, just as the element I was waiting for was entering my frame.
Yet I don’t believe the best images I’ve done are the ones that I’ve patiently composed. For the most part, they are like notes I took while I was passing by, without even thinking, because that quick moment felt so obvious , and then I moved on—to another street, another discovery, another photograph. A passer-by because I never really stayed very long, but also because I was not fully present, still floating around, and maybe, lost in my own bubble even more. There are many more things I would’ve like to see. Each place, I could’ve stayed a little longer, except maybe in Boukhara, in Uzbekistan, a city I’ve found to be inhospitable. Maybe also in these vast, untouched mountains in Kyrgyzstan. In the end, I traveled like a tourist, to temporarily escape my daily life and come back with new experiences, stories to tell and images to show.
Looking back, I realize that’s exactly what happened. I knew I was drawn to the streets, the people who inhabit them, the ordinary elements of their scenery; I discovered that I was also fascinated by empty spaces, by the traces that people leave behind. In Uzbekistan, it was those deserted alleyways, emptied by the crushing heat of a dry summer. In Kyrgyzstan, it was the ghostly, half- abandoned Soviet sites, where a few rare inhabitants still linger, like specters of a bygone era. And then, as my journey went on, the little voice—the one that kept asking what I was doing there—began to quiet down. I started sleeping better. It happened naturally, without me really noticing. Maybe it was because, toward the end, I no longer felt alone. And then I boarded the plane and went home. It only took two days for them to return in full force. I was just passing by and thought I could leave my anxieties behind, I came back with the obviousness of their weight.