When I was a boy, I have always expressed myself best with a pencil and a sheet of paper. I would depress and release on the blank canvas, driving parallels and parallels of thick and thin lines that would eventually flesh out pictures from my imagination.I recall having worked on still life illustrations of inanimate objects, sketches of people and their facial expressions, impressions of lush landscapes and calm seascapes, and probably figures of otherworldly things that I cannot clearly remember. I recollect most of them being in black and white, either crosshatched or in smudged pencil lead, sometimes even lined with black ink. There were also instances when I daubed my drawings with watercolour or massaged them with oil pastel to add more emotion to whatever it was I was trying to express.
None but a few of these aforementioned artworks were ever purposely archived. Most of them were born out of sudden bursts of inspiration, if not, of poignant memories—nostalgic places, memorable events, and unforgettable experiences.
This might be very estranging and quite enigmatic, but looking at artworks from the point of view of why they were created, for me, breathes life into every creative expression and begs the answer to the questions, when, what, why, and how?
I would like to believe that the esotericism found in this philosophy would simply place the audience where I am standing—looking around with anonymity through an experience not of their own.
This is what my photography is about—unknown photographs on being human.