I wanted to create an abstract winter landscape that still reads as winter, but without relying on its familiar visual clichés. Snow became a tool for reduction — allowing the landscape to dissolve into surface, line, rhythm, and quiet contrast rather than describing a specific place.

Winter naturally lends itself to abstraction. Snow erases hierarchy and softens scale. What remains are subtle relationships: faint tracks, dark edges, isolated markers. The series explores winter not as spectacle, but as a state of stillness.

Most of my black and white work is intentionally soft, with very restrained contrast and few true whites or blacks. For this series, I chose a more graphic approach.

Because the work is abstract, stronger contrast and texture help clarify form and structure. The darker tones give weight, while the whites remain open and expansive. The shift is about clarity rather than drama — supporting an abstract reading while remaining quiet and restrained.

Black and white removes explanation. Without color, images become less descriptive and more open. They invite a slower, more inward way of seeing.

That openness — the space for ambiguity and silence — aligns closely with how I experience landscapes and how I want my work to be encountered.

Yes, I have worked in color and continue to do so. Color can be immediate and emotionally rich, but it often defines meaning very quickly.

Black and white feels quieter and more precise for the questions I’m interested in — especially those around stillness, reduction, and attention.

I’m less interested in subjects than in states. I’m drawn to landscapes that feel temporarily unoccupied — shaped more by time than by activity. Snow is one expression of that, but it’s part of a broader interest in quiet, transitional spaces.

I’m working on a long-term project in the Swiss mountains, influenced by Christopher Alexander’s idea of A Quality Without a Name. The work focuses on small, overlooked situations — paths, edges, simple structures — and the subtle sense of wholeness they can carry.

I admire photographers who work quietly and consistently, without spectacle or urgency. Artists like Masao Yamamoto, Michael Kenna, and Robert Adams have been important references.I’m also drawn to the attentiveness of Guido Guidi and the gentle precision of Rinko Kawauchi. What matters most to me is not style, but attitude — a way of seeing that unfolds slowly and remains open.