J’Accuse! borrows its title from Zola’s incendiary letter to reposition mourning as public indictment. The series does not accuse individuals; it prosecutes the procedures that polish conformity—administrations, markets, metrics, algorithms—until dissent looks like error. Working with the gravitas of historical photographic aesthetics, the images slow the drive-by consumption of pain. Their rough brush margins act as redaction and revelation at once, insisting on what our timelines try to smooth over. Grief here is not catharsis but evidence; tenderness, not consolation but testimony. J’Accuse! asks what responsibility looks like when neutrality is marketed as good manners and forgetting is automated. To look is to witness; to witness is to refuse the single way of thinking that turns lives into acceptable collateral.

Hidden Humanity is a study of consciousness under pressure. What should make us free—self-awareness—has become a managed resource in modern societies. We are trained to optimize the self, to curate a frictionless surface, to perform wellness while the interior roils. As Byung-Chul Han notes, the subject of achievement exploits itself; as Foucault warned, surveillance becomes intimate. The new slavery is polite, data-driven, and apparently voluntary: algorithms ask for our attention, dashboards for our productivity, brands for our consent—on the condition that we do not open our eyesto what hurts.

These plates refuse that bargain. Working with wet-plate processes—tintype and ambrotype—slows the image to human time. Collodion is like skin; silver remembers every tremor; accidents do not correct, they testify. The patina is not nostalgia but method: a material ethic against the speed and polish that domesticate pain. Here, the image does not flatter the self—it complicates it. Jung’s shadow is not a pathology to be optimized away but a commons we all share: the depression that will not schedule, the anxiety that spikes off-cycle, the rage and grief that resist UX.

Hidden Humanity stages a paradox: the more we attempt to know and manage ourselves, the more of ourselves we exile. What returns in these plates is that exiled surplus—blur, glare, stain—insisting on its right to be seen. The series does not offer catharsis; it proposes lucidity. Against a culture that outsources forgetting to servers and obedience to metrics, these images keep their eyes open. They argue that dignity begins where performance ends: in the unedited interval where light and shadow coexist, where the map of the self remains incomplete and, therefore, truly human.

TRASHSCAPES is a portrait of a civilization measured by its leftovers. Rusted drums, oil cans and discarded metal are turned into image-carriers, so the support and the subject collapse: the container that once moved fuel now “contains” the landscape it helped ruin. The work belongs to expanded photography—image as sculpture, frame as indictment. Stacked barrels read like a supply chain diagram, a small petro-monument to logistics; the circular faces become portholes or rifle scopes, forcing the gaze into the dump, the riverbank, the desecrated monument.

The series stands with Zygmunt Bauman’s insight that modernity manufactures “wasted lives,” and with Timothy Morton’s idea of hyperobjects—waste that outscales us, sticky and everywhere. Where Allan Sekula mapped the hidden back-end of capitalism and Mierle Laderman Ukeles dignified maintenance and garbage, TRASHSCAPESdrags the externality to the center. No neutral white frame, no hygienic distance: rust records time, dents record impact. Beauty is not consolation here—it is evidence.

Each piece is a small archaeology of the present. The sepia tonality slows the image to human time while the metal insists on matter and weight. Viewers meet their own reflection on the print’s surface, implicated in the economies of extraction, delivery and disposal that make “away” seem real. TRASHSCAPES argues that the new sublime is not the mountain but the landfill; that our monuments are stockpiles; that a culture which optimizes everything converts the world into residue. These works refuse that fate: they keep the wound open long enough for responsibility to enter.

In the 14th century, the sambenito—derived from saco bendito—identified the condemned in public acts of faith and remained hung in churches to prolong their dishonor. The Heretic’s Brush revisits that ritualized exposure to confront its contemporary mutation. Today, the sambenito is digital: it is pinned to profiles, multiplied by reposts, preserved by caches, and mirrored across platforms. What once occupied stone walls now occupies servers; what once ended at the square now persists in the cloud, producing an unbroken cycle of scrutiny.
This work names the Neo-heretic—the individual marked by viral judgment—and traces the lived effects of always-on stigma: isolation, humiliation, and the exhaustion of being visible 24/7. The series stages bodies that carry their “mark” not as spectacle but as testimony, reclaiming attention from algorithms of outrage. By invoking the language of the historical sambenito while insisting on its digital afterlife, The Heretic’s Brush asks what redemption can mean when the record never forgets.

The Place Where It Burns asks a simple, ancient question—what is love?—and answers with Quevedo’s paradox: “burning ice, frozen fire.” The series takes the bed as its stage and instrument: an altar, tribunal, sickbed, raft, and battlefield in one. Here, thought gets loud; here, bodies negotiate passion and withdrawal, remorse and vacancy, hunger and fear. In Barthes’s terms, love arrives in fragments of a discourse; in Anne Carson’s, Eros is bittersweet, made of desire and its denial at once. Lauren Berlant would call it a cruel optimism: the attachment that sustains us even as it undoes us.

The images work like thermal maps after the blaze: creases, hollows, salt, and the faint geometry of pillows become a topography of what just happened—or what refused to happen. Light does not illustrate bodies; it records their afterglow, the negative where absence is presence. The bed is where we insist on being singular and discover we are divided; where we ask for refuge and receive exposure; where the self performs intimacy and runs out of script. There is no moral here, only lucidity: love is an oxymoron that burns and cools at the same time, and the bed—this place where it burns—is the witness. To look is to feel the temperature drop and to sense, beneath the sheet, the slow ember that refuses to die.

Farewell Letters follows a piece of language from impulse to ash. Each panel records a phase in the life of a sentence: the hand that writes, the recoil that crumples, the heat that deforms, the ember that loosens meaning, the residue that remains when the “I” who spoke no longer exists. We write to fix time, but time rewrites us. As Roland Barthessuggested, the author disappears behind the text; as Jacques Derrida warned, every archive is also an act of forgetting. What once felt salvational—letters of love, rupture, survival—later becomes abrasive, embarrassing, untrue to the self we have become.

The work turns that discomfort into a ritual of lucidity. Burning is not mere destruction; it is editing a life, declining to be permanently published by our past. The white field isolates the paper like an operating table or altar; the camera keeps witness as the page sheds its claim to permanence. The series honors the private right to unwrite oneself—the right to close a chapter without turning it into memorabilia. There is tenderness in the fire: intimacy that chooses presence over proof.

This begins with a family pact. My parents fell in love by letter—he in Tétouan, she in Madrid. Years later, when they married, my mother suggested reading those letters together. My father, mortified by his own fervor, proposed a truce: we read one, and we burn it. That small ceremony—love choosing the future over the archive—became the grammar of Farewell Letters. The images do not moralize; they simply show what language does when time has had its say. Meaning burns, but the ember lights the way to what remains.

I WANT A MILLION FRIENDS stages the platform dream for what it is: not friendship, but ad inventory. Archival pin-ups are redacted with brand-red silhouettes and blackout masks that double as “YOUR AD HERE” stickers; bodies become premium placements, captions turn into compliance, and the feed’s euphemism—community guidelines—dictates what may be seen. The work performs a judo move on moderation: the censor patch is the paint, the ban becomes the form.

This is social media’s double bind. As Guy Debord wrote, in the society of the spectacle we live mediated lives; as Shoshana Zuboff shows, our gestures are harvested as data; with Byung-Chul Han, the swarm counts approval rather than thought. Here the metric colonizes intimacy: nipples are unpublishable, but desire is fully monetizable. The slogans—SPONSORED CONTENT, MARKETPLACE, WHAT YOU CAN’T SEE DOESN’T EXIST—mirror the feed’s logic: invisibility equals non-existence; visibility, if allowed, must pay rent.

By repainting the gaze (hello John Berger) and short-circuiting the “male gaze” (Laura Mulvey), the series refuses both scandal and purity. What remains is a clean, aggressive graphic language that treats the body as a billboard and the self as an A/B test. The question isn’t whether we get a million friends, but whether we’ve mistaken an audience for care, reach for meaning, engagement for love. I WANT A MILLION FRIENDS answers by weaponizing the platform’s own UI against it: if what you can’t see “doesn’t matter,” this red silence will scream.

The Box of Geometrical Dreams is a small reliquary for two gestures of mind: the circle and the square. One expands, flows, intuits; the other frames, weighs, decides. From Kandinsky to Albers, geometry has been a language for inner states; here it becomes a hand-held vocabulary. Silhouettes cradle a red sun or a white cube as if holding a thought between palms.

The project began as a meditation on XX/XY, on how cultures script difference, but it moves past the binary toward modes rather than essences. We all shuttle between tempos—simplifying and elaborating, impulse and analysis—regardless of the body we inhabit. The geometry is not a code for gender; it is a permission to change shape.

Materially, the work insists on singularity. Each plate is an ambrotype (wet-plate collodion on glass): silver remembers tremor, light pools, and no image can be repeated. The box turns the series into an intimate, domestic cabinet—something to open, reorder, and protect—so that dreams remain portable and private.

The Box of Geometrical Dreams proposes a simple claim: we are more than our chromosomes; we are the moving conversation between circle and square, between what we feel and what we frame. The box keeps that dialogue alive.

THE WAY OF TAO treats the image as something that grows rather than something that is taken. Leaves and petals become the plate; chlorophyll is the emulsion; sunlight writes slowly, in days, without developer or fixer. The plant co-authors the photograph, and the work accepts what the Dao names as reality: a moving order in which all forms appear, change, and return. “Return is the movement of the Tao,” says the Daodejing—and these pictures return us to a tempo that industrial life has abandoned.

The series is a field notebook from years of traveling through Asia, culminating at Wudang Shan, a cradle of Taoist practice. It does not offer nostalgia but a proposition: a life in which attention follows the seasons and work aligns with materials rather than forcing them. Faces and everyday scenes surface inside botanical matter, not as decoration but as collaboration; the world depicts itself. In a time of acceleration—pollution, fatigue, climate disruption, shameless extraction—these images resist by refusing speed. They hold the viewer in a quiet reciprocity: to look is to breathe slower; to witness is to practice wu-wei, acting without violence.

Technically, the pieces are chlorophyll prints—akin to early plant-based photography (anthotype)—but here more aptly called biotypes or chlorophyllotypes: each is unrepeatable, mortal, and therefore alive. THE WAY OF TAO is not an illustration of philosophy; it is its method. The picture does not conquer nature—it learns to move with it.

TRAVELERS maps the distances that open inside kinship. The rooms look still, but everyone is in transit: a mother crossing the weather of care, a partner stranded at the customs of routine, a child departing into another room of thought. These domestic tableaux are waystations where people share light yet inhabit different time zones. The absent appear as portraits on the wall, empty seats, doorways that never quite close. The family persists—out of convenience, tenderness, economy, habit, love—what Lauren Berlant called the “ordinary” that keeps us alive even as it frays us.

The camera doesn’t judge; it takes measurements. It registers the cold front between lamp and window, the draft where a sentence stopped, the geography of compromise drawn by furniture, thresholds, shadows. Travel here is not mileage but drift: from before to after, from promise to fatigue, from we to I. In the tradition of cinematic tableaux, the images hold the breath of a scene just before or just after something happens; the twilight is moral and meteorological at once.

These are family landscapes because attachment shapes terrain: illness, inheritance, secrecy, patience—slow forces that erode and bind. To look is to feel how far people can be while touching. The series proposes a hard clarity: staying is also a journey; home is an airport without departures board; love is a passport that expires and renews itself in silence.

MINORITIES looks at the interface through a microscope. Obsolete Apple mice—cords turned into flagella—swim across a circular field that reads like a Petri dish or an ocular lens. It’s funny at first, then diagnostic: the device that taught our hands to point and click becomes the avatar of selection itself—who is included, who is excluded, who gets to “enter.” The default whiteness of the mice and the lone black body at the center sketch a diagram of norm and exception, visibility and isolation. Using e-waste as matter ties biological selection to economic obsolescence: systems don’t just sort; they age out what no longer fits. In the background hum the societies of control (Deleuze) and the biases of the feed (Safiya Noble): reproduction at scale means reproducing the same. MINORITIES weaponizes wit to make a hard claim—what we call “minor” is often engineered by design. The round frame doesn’t soften the image; it seals the lab. Look closely: you’re not outside the experiment; you’re holding the mouse.

PICTOWALLS is urban entropy turned into a ready-made painting. The city writes in layers—paint, plaster, tape, sun, rain, neglect—and the camera isolates fragments until they read as fields of color and texture. What once registered as nuisance becomes a palimpsest: human intent overlaid by weather and time. In dialogue with Aaron Siskind’s wall abstractions, Rothko’s chromatic fields, and Robert Smithson’s poetics of entropy, the series treats the street as an accidental studio where the world composes itself.

These are not pictures of walls but psychological frescoes: when framed, a scar becomes a horizon; a drip, a fault line; a patch, a memory. Each diptych or triptych measures a small climate—heat, abrasion, humidity—so that looking becomes a barometer of the day you bring to it. The work doesn’t romanticize decay; it recognizes a cycle in which construction and erosion co-author form. PICTOWALLS proposes a simple reversal: abstraction is not an escape from reality but its most concentrated evidence. Welcome to the marvelous world of degeneration—where time paints, and we learn to see.