Light.
Shadow.
Witness.

This series was made during one of the kinetic light installations at Light Move Festival in Lodz, Poland in 2025. The festival is an annual event that transforms the city's streets and historic facades into a vast, temporary canvas of light. Rather than documenting the installation itself, this work turns the camera toward something the festival produces but rarely foregrounds: the crowd that gathers to witness it.

Shot entirely in high-contrast black and white, the images strip away the festival's colour and spectacle to focus on a more elemental relationship. Bodies are reduced to silhouette, faces erased, individuals dissolved into a collective mass moving through bursts of light. Long exposures and intentional camera movement turn sparks and flares into streaking trails, abstracting the literal scene into something closer to a study of energy and motion than a record of place or event.

The resulting photographs sit between documentary and abstraction. They are anchored in a real, specific event, yet they resist describing it directly. There are no faces, no clear architecture, no legible narrative. What remains is the experience of being inside a crowd at night, caught in light too bright to look at directly, the kind of moment that burns itself into memory the way an afterimage lingers on the eye after the source of light is gone.

Anonymity is central to the work. By erasing individual identity, the images point toward something more universal: the act of gathering itself, the pull people feel toward shared spectacle, and the strange intimacy of standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the dark.

Ultimately, this is a series about collective experience under artificial light: not the art installation as spectacle, but the human ritual of gathering to watch it.

These photographs were made in a single morning in Gdynia, Poland, on a day when fog had come in so completely from the Baltic that the city's edges ceased to exist.

Gdynia is a place built on boldness, a port city constructed almost entirely in the 1930s in a deliberate, optimistic modernist style, its architecture designed to project permanence and forward motion. On this morning, none of that held. The fog dissolved the boundary between sea and sky, softened concrete into suggestion, and reduced the city's monumental structures to pale outlines half-present at the edge of visibility.

Shot entirely in black and white, the images do not try to fight this dissolution. Instead, they follow it. People appear throughout, walking the beach, standing at the waterline, scattered individuals in the grey distance, but always small, always far, always on the verge of disappearing. They are not the subject so much as evidence that the world is still there, somewhere beyond the fog. Seagulls mark the sky the same way: single dark punctuation marks in fields of undifferentiated grey.

What interested me was not the fog as weather event but as a temporary condition of perception, a morning when the usual contract between a place and its image was suspended. The photographs try to stay inside that strangeness rather than explain it away.

This is a series about a single place on a single day, but it is also about the experience of looking at a world that will not quite come into focus, and finding that condition not alarming, but clarifying.

These photographs were made in two buildings in Poland. Stary Browar in Poznan, a 19th century industrial brewery transformed into a contemporary cultural centre, and the Emigration Museum in Gdynia, housed in a restored 1930s maritime station that once served as the departure point for millions of Polish emigrants. Both are spaces defined by the memory of human presence and movement. Both were photographed in its absence.

No people appear in this series. There are no figures, no movement, no evidence of occupation. These are spaces caught in the intervals between human presence, corridors and staircases and facades suspended in a moment of pure formal existence, indifferent to whoever might pass through them. Absence here is not emptiness but presence of a different kind: the evidence of a space that continues to exist, and to have meaning, independently of the people who move through it.

The series begins in legible space. A vast arched window frames storm clouds. A staircase catches raking light along its edge. Globe lights burn against pale walls. These are recognisable places, interior volumes with depth, shadow, and architectural intention. But the series does not stay there.

Moving through the images, the work progressively strips away spatial context until what remains is pure form: repeating curves of light disappearing into black, geometric bands dissolving at their edges, patterns of illumination that have lost their architectural origin. The buildings that generated these images are no longer visible by the end. What remains is the logic of light itself, its tendency toward repetition, geometry, and order, set against a darkness that absorbs everything light does not touch.

In this way the series treats space as an active infrastructure of signs. A maritime station built for departure. A brewery rebuilt for culture. Both continue to organise light, to shape shadow, to impose meaning on the air inside them, long after the last visitor has left and before the next one arrives.