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Almost: Photographer
Almost: Ceramist
Almost: Writer
2004 - Present
Canon Ixus, Canon 400D, Canon F1, Action Sampler, Diana F+, Kodak Ektar H35, Nikon 35Ti, Fuji X100V, Ricoh GRII
The privilege of making the ordinary feel cinematic. The memories of the first ever camera owned; a dazzling red Canon Ixus, gifted around the age of seven or eight, made its way into the everyday life of this young curly girl. Capturing moments with cats, friends, grass, mom and dad, the occasional toys and life that of an eight year old. Silly skits, witchcraft (mixing potions), rock painting and pretend news reports became the subjects where naturally the camera pointed to. None of which survives now, but the memory of making them does. And what a memory it was. The first thrill of holding something so special and having the ability to make them last. The relic that lives somewhere in the drawer, well used, well loved and now well rested.
What seemed to be a short lived hobby became a world that grew alongside the seasons of life. ISO, shutter speed, aperture, joined the ever increasing vocabulary of photographic terms. Along with it a new Canon and Nikon DSLRs that expanded the possibilities of what can be seen and stolen by a preteen. As the world grew more complicated to navigate, so did the practice. Photography clubs, photowalks with dad, long afternoons fiddling with dials that never seemed to make sense. In spite of that, the camera stayed glued and ready to fire away at moments that felt extraordinary. Even in this solitary practice, the excitement of sharing it, especially with who at that time (and maybe still is in my own heart to this day) the best photographer that ever lived; Dad. Who time and time again included me and went with my whims of photographing random objects. A shared joy with wildly different eyes.
The feeling of being cool before anybody was cool, the ‘ahead of the curve’, the trendsetter if you say so, was the major key in which we (me & my very cool big sister) played when we first got our Lomography cameras long before it was a thing. Burning through rolls with our Fisheye & Action Sampler, the world became our experimental playground. Mistakes were applauded, light leaks were art streaks and every imperfection celebrated. Freedom of expression and feeling on top of the world. I didn't know the ceiling could be higher until I graduated to using 120 film. It was rare and expensive to come by but a necessity ever since parents gifted me with yet another incredible addition; the Diana F+. Surprisingly reeling me in to a more subtle and contemplative shooter, as each frame became deliberate and precious, just like the lomo photo books.
The bug of analog became a black hole as I switched over to receiving an heirloom. Dad’s first camera; the Canon F1. Solid, weighty, stubborn, and at this point well over 30 years old - it demanded respect. Its light meter never quite worked right even after repairs, and so we learned how to guess and read light. We managed to tame the beast. Passing along not only the camera, but the tools and practice of bulk loading film, developing b&w rolls and the beauty of prime lenses. The feelings remain, though most of the tools share the same home as the red Canon Ixus. What remains along with a 30m bulk roll of Ilford HP5 that was bought in confidence but never opened serves as a reminder of both possibility and procrastination.
Canon F 1 Diana F+ Action Sampler Developing Negatives Nikon 35Ti Ilford HP5
And yet, came the digital dilemma. The Fuji X100V. For years it had been the ideal, my ideal. Finally crossing over to legitimacy, a ‘real photographer’ or so it felt for a brief moment. What was produced were calculated and impressive shots that rendered me flat and overworked. The ideal camera came with ideal pressures, and the need to produce award-winning shots each snap sank deeper than expected. The invisible audience grew louder and the all seeing judge stood closer. Never feeling quite enough, the camera stood in dust waiting to be the person I thought I should be.
Fuji X100V
What seemed to be a short lived hobby became a world that grew alongside the seasons of life. ISO, shutter speed, aperture, joined the ever increasing vocabulary of photographic terms. Along with it a new Canon and Nikon DSLRs that expanded the possibilities of what can be seen and stolen by a preteen. As the world grew more complicated to navigate, so did the practice. Photography clubs, photowalks with dad, long afternoons fiddling with dials that never seemed to make sense. In spite of that, the camera stayed glued and ready to fire away at moments that felt extraordinary. Even in this solitary practice, the excitement of sharing it, especially with who at that time (and maybe still is in my own heart to this day) the best photographer that ever lived; Dad. Who time and time again included me and went with my whims of photographing random objects. A shared joy with wildly different eyes.
The feeling of being cool before anybody was cool, the ‘ahead of the curve’, the trendsetter if you say so, was the major key in which we (me & my very cool big sister) played when we first got our Lomography cameras long before it was a thing. Burning through rolls with our Fisheye & Action Sampler, the world became our experimental playground. Mistakes were applauded, light leaks were art streaks and every imperfection celebrated. Freedom of expression and feeling on top of the world. I didn't know the ceiling could be higher until I graduated to using 120 film. It was rare and expensive to come by but a necessity ever since parents gifted me with yet another incredible addition; the Diana F+. Surprisingly reeling me in to a more subtle and contemplative shooter, as each frame became deliberate and precious, just like the lomo photo books.
The bug of analog became a black hole as I switched over to receiving an heirloom. Dad’s first camera; the Canon F1. Solid, weighty, stubborn, and at this point well over 30 years old - it demanded respect. Its light meter never quite worked right even after repairs, and so we learned how to guess and read light. We managed to tame the beast. Passing along not only the camera, but the tools and practice of bulk loading film, developing b&w rolls and the beauty of prime lenses. The feelings remain, though most of the tools share the same home as the red Canon Ixus. What remains along with a 30m bulk roll of Ilford HP5 that was bought in confidence but never opened serves as a reminder of both possibility and procrastination.
And yet, came the digital dilemma. The Fuji X100V. For years it had been the ideal, my ideal. Finally crossing over to legitimacy, a ‘real photographer’ or so it felt for a brief moment. What was produced were calculated and impressive shots that rendered me flat and overworked. The ideal camera came with ideal pressures, and the need to produce award-winning shots each snap sank deeper than expected. The invisible audience grew louder and the all seeing judge stood closer. Never feeling quite enough, the camera stood in dust waiting to be the person I thought I should be.
Eventually the quiet acceptance came, letting go of what once was and who I thought I could be. Finally facing myself and giving up pretenses. Trading in the X100V for a Ricoh GRIII felt almost like defeat, with a sprinkle of relief. Putting down weighted bricks of being an artist, and back towards memory, towards archiving, towards stealing moments, returning to presence.
2025-Present
Bali, Indonesia
In a desperate attempt to get out of one’s own head, every quest is explored. Not long after a heartbreak, the four elements called me to create. Combining earth, water, wind, and fire to bring life to an imagined concept. Reintroduced to this ancient art by my sister who unknowingly saved me from the constant spiral of distress.
A class that turned into a four-hour studio session opened up a new world where hands moved freely and the joy of creating slowly filled the cracks. Within two months, a whole shelf was filled with what resembled a rat. Somehow, somewhere these hands created rats, created heads, created thrice. Three heads, three legs, three eyes and an assortment of funny looking animals. Never before did these hands sculpt, but somewhere along the way the clay found its shape and it kept flowing.
Showing up daily without plans after work, without pressure, just hyper-focused with a need to play. The studio brought in new cast members for this season in life. Unexpectedly meeting wonderful, talented, knowledge-sharing comrades from all walks of life, going through the same hardships of wedging and uneven glaze. Many shared their wisdom both in clay and in life providing company at the best possible moment.
Yet again, the invisible audience returned and the weight to produce at least something good came crashing down. The excuse of life events made its way into fewer studio sessions, bordering on abandoning these half made creations. As the visits slowly dwindled in frequency, the encouragement grew louder and the sense of belonging lent me a hand in returning. Banning myself from creating new pieces until every single piece was painted, glazed and fired.
A new season begins, and I have yet to find out where it takes me. Will the rats return or will the practice take another turn? Questions I might never answer, only to surrender to the joys of creating.
Having all lived through purgatory, now welcoming them into the studio light.
2008
“Another attempt on being understood, to unearth the misunderstandings, things lost in perspective.”
Opening lines of a book never written yet capture the essence of this insatiable need to be profound lingering in each phrase that sits solidly alone, never quite expanded into what it could be. Hiding behind pen names, writing behind closed doors, became the security blanket from which these writings exist. If only the courage to publish was there.
Through different versions of self, a different writer emerged. Having a knack for being ‘an old soul’ made it easier for the ego to dive into the attempt to answer life’s questions. Stringing together pretentious words to guide invisible readers into a realm in no way qualified to guide. Through poems and syntax, allegories and alliterations, the creation of these was met with a colluded mix of joy, yearning and in all seriousness; a need to express.
The love of The Nightmare Before Christmas and Oyster Boy drew a more mischievous poet who took a liking to creepy crawlies and dark gloomy tales. Thinking about thinking drew a contemplative and imaginative author, who at that time used the concept of cab blabs* as a vehicle to talk about philosophical theories. University life brought in a systematic and truthful researcher who conducted a series of experiments on antioxidants. Friendship brought in a fun writer who contributed to online magazines of peers.
Throughout all this there was only ever one pen. Now stripping away all the bedazzled jewels, cool stickers, colorful inks, costumes and rendering it bare has been one of the most arresting yet liberating experiences. Still bargaining with how much to expose, balancing between the silver linings of each word written, speaking truth and still beautifully arranging them to create a soothing voice. A voice yet to be shaped and may never be.
Some words from the past:
*Cab Blabs: a concept of a comic/book never written except for a long list of ideas and the opening lines which read;
a million places, a million faces
day in, day out
from high rollers to street workers
never a dull moment in sight
stories from old times to future thoughts
wacky habits and mad theories
current events, and personal issues
all disclosed in the private space of a cab
this is cab blabs, a series on conversations that happened in cabs
Opening lines of a book never written yet capture the essence of this insatiable need to be profound lingering in each phrase that sits solidly alone, never quite expanded into what it could be. Hiding behind pen names, writing behind closed doors, became the security blanket from which these writings exist. If only the courage to publish was there.
Through different versions of self, a different writer emerged. Having a knack for being ‘an old soul’ made it easier for the ego to dive into the attempt to answer life’s questions. Stringing together pretentious words to guide invisible readers into a realm in no way qualified to guide. Through poems and syntax, allegories and alliterations, the creation of these was met with a colluded mix of joy, yearning and in all seriousness; a need to express.
The love of The Nightmare Before Christmas and Oyster Boy drew a more mischievous poet who took a liking to creepy crawlies and dark gloomy tales. Thinking about thinking drew a contemplative and imaginative author, who at that time used the concept of cab blabs* as a vehicle to talk about philosophical theories. University life brought in a systematic and truthful researcher who conducted a series of experiments on antioxidants. Friendship brought in a fun writer who contributed to online magazines of peers.
Throughout all this there was only ever one pen. Now stripping away all the bedazzled jewels, cool stickers, colorful inks, costumes and rendering it bare has been one of the most arresting yet liberating experiences. Still bargaining with how much to expose, balancing between the silver linings of each word written, speaking truth and still beautifully arranging them to create a soothing voice. A voice yet to be shaped and may never be.
Some words from the past:
*Cab Blabs: a concept of a comic/book never written except for a long list of ideas and the opening lines which read;
a million places, a million faces
day in, day out
from high rollers to street workers
never a dull moment in sight
stories from old times to future thoughts
wacky habits and mad theories
current events, and personal issues
all disclosed in the private space of a cab
this is cab blabs, a series on conversations that happened in cabs