I never set out to become a photographer. I simply became someone who couldn’t look away. It started in cafés. On metro platforms. At intersections where shadows danced through shutters and strangers wore stories in their eyes. I was always observing — not to analyze, but to feel. Growing up in Paris, the city moved around me like a film. Every corner carried rhythm, every texture had a mood. I didn’t chase the big landscapes or loud moments. I was drawn to subtlety — the in-between gestures, the quiet chaos, the intimacy of the unnoticed. Eventually, I picked up a camera to keep up with my memory. That’s when everything changed. Photography became a way to anchor what would otherwise dissolve: a certain kind of light, a breath before laughter, the look someone gives when they think no one’s watching. Over time, my work grew beyond the city. I started capturing stories across Europe — documenting artists, dreamers, dancers, desert wanderers, women rebuilding, men letting go. The camera is still just my excuse to listen. These days, I split my time between client work, personal projects, and long walks with no real direction. I shoot on digital, film, and sometimes just on instinct. I collaborate with brands that value emotion over perfection, and people who aren’t afraid to be seen for who they are. I believe good photography doesn’t just show what something looks like. It reveals how it felt to be there. And that’s what I’ll keep chasing.