Freedom is not a pose. It is my path. It can never be reached. Every image is a piece of my path. In the PS.Speicher museum in Einbeck, Germany, stands a Harley-Davidson FXRS-SP, built in 1986. The odometer reads more than 160,000 kilometers. The owner personalized the bike with small things – charms, details some might dismiss as unnecessary. I photographed the machine and found myself thinking about a woman I will never meet: someone who, in 1986 – at a time when women on heavy motorcycles were still the exception – got on this FXRS and rode it until arthritis forced her to stop. That is what I am looking for. Not the machine. The story inside it. I have been photographing for many years – not as an outsider looking into a world, but as someone who is at home in it. I know the clubs, the codes, the silence between people who trust each other – and what it costs when that trust is put to the test. As a paramedic, I saw how quickly a story can end. I have occupied buildings and later run a company of my own – fought, built, let go again. Never the same job, but always the same path. These experiences stand behind every picture I take. My way of seeing has several origins. My maternal grandfather headed the West German general agency of Carl Zeiss Jena in his day – and was a passionate photographer himself. So was my father: I remember slide nights in my childhood, the family sitting together as pictures appeared on the wall. And yet the first thing I learned was something else: offset printing. Not for the technology – but because I had read a great deal early on and believed that the written word can change the world for the better. A printer brings those words into the world. Today I work with images – for me, another form of the same idea. I still want to make people think, to set something in motion. For me, freedom lives between connection and autonomy. It is an ideal that must constantly be pursued, won, defended, and negotiated. Freedom lifts you up and wears you down. It ties you to the world and leaves you lonely. Freedom always has its price. And because freedom itself cannot be photographed, I photograph people, symbols, and moments in which I see it. Freedom as it is lived, fought for, defended, and lost. The studio is the place where I control everything – light, pose, composition. This is where an idea becomes an image, where every detail can be worked out – alone, or together with a model and intuition. This is where series like Who is watching?, Control, Illusion & Autonomy, and Portraits of Freedom come into being. What interests me is the quiet form of power: norms, roles, expectations – gazes we have internalized for so long that we begin to guard ourselves. Few arenas show this more clearly than sexuality, and few have been used longer to steer people. Who is watching? asks exactly that question. The studio is my workshop. On the road, I give up control. What counts there is the documentary: seizing the situation at the right moment – photographing people and machines that radiate freedom. A motorcycle being started. A face in a crowd that falls out of its role for one second. Maybe freedom exists only in the moment. But those moments prove that it exists. Pictures like these are meant to give courage. I began Blacktop Dreams only after 25 years in the motorcycle and US car scene. It is not a documentation – more of an homage. To a world that is slowly disappearing, and to the people who keep faith with it. This scene does not open up easily to anyone, myself included. But 25 years change the way you see: where others see a backdrop, I see people and their stories. And then there are places where no one is watching. An empty mountain pass. A pine tree above a sea of clouds. A coastline under heavy skies, just before the light breaks through. There is nothing to prove there and no one to convince. Only the question of whether you can bear your own stillness. These images are not a break from my work. They are its third place. Three places, one question. The answer is not written in any picture. But each one is a step in its direction – toward a freedom that doesn't shine, but carries you. For me, a picture succeeds when you can feel the life behind it. Not the perfect light, not the technically clean solution – but the decision someone made. The scar that tells a story. The mileage that changes everything. Three sentences have accompanied me for years: I set out for a better world. When I arrived, I found myself back at the starting point of my journey. Everything had stayed the same – only I had changed. If you recognize yourself in them, you know why you are here.