romantic resistance

Every day, billions of images light up a glass screen for a fraction of a second, only to vanish forever into the next algorithm. Photography has become more accessible than ever, but completely disposable.

In the middle of this digital chaos, a photographer’s decision to commit their work to paper feels like an act of romantic resistance. It is an expensive, time-consuming process. Yet, I felt an undeniable push to go through it. This inner drive gave birth to my new book, "An exhibition for the unnoticed."

When you shoot on the street, you chase the ephemeral—a fleeting cinematic atmosphere, a specific light falling on a stranger. Leaving these images to live solely on a social media profile feels like doing them an injustice.

For me, a book is an ark. Hard drives fail, platforms change, but printed paper endures. It has weight, scent, and texture.

In "An exhibition for the unnoticed," the choice of matte paper was deliberate. It absorbs light in a quiet way, rendering shadows with a depth that no cold phone screen can replicate. A book allows you to build a sequence, to tell a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It becomes a permanent, portable exhibition.

As intense as the photographer's need to print may be, the market reality is stark. Why do people no longer buy photography books the way they used to? The truth is that audiences have been conditioned to expect everything for free. A prevailing mindset has taken over: “Since I can see your work online, why pay for the book?” and thus, the authentic experience is bypassed for the sake of convenience.

At the same time, we have become addicted to endless scrolling and rapid consumption. A photography book demands the exact opposite: it forces you to slow down, sit, and truly observe. In an era of fractured attention spans, this deliberate slowness feels foreign, making it harder for the wider public to engage with a physical volume.al.

The Book as an Art Object

This shift doesn't mean the photography book is dying; its role is simply changing. It is no longer meant for the masses. It is transforming into a collectible art object.

Those who acquire it aren't just browsing images; they are seeking a deeper connection with the creator's vision. They want to own a tangible piece of that story.

"An exhibition for the unnoticed" is not a product of mass consumption. It is an open invitation to stop running, if only for a moment. It is my attempt to rescue the beauty of the people and moments that usually pass by unnoticed, and to place it into the hands of those who still believe that some stories are worth touching and keeping through