I use photography to understand how time moves through the world and through us. My practice centers on close observation—of the same sky, the same field, the same forest—recording the subtle changes that occur when no one is looking.

I work on projects that unfold over months and years because some things can only be perceived with intentionality and patience. During the pandemic, I photographed the same patch of sky almost daily—not because I planned to, but because I needed to. Today, I visit a field near my home every week, documenting how the seasons reshape the same piece of earth. These are not conceptual exercises—they are honest attempts to understand what it means to remain present in a fast-moving world.

When I moved to Finland, I used my camera to learn how to belong in a new landscape. Photography became a way of asking questions: How does this light feel different? How does my body adapt to -25 degrees Celsius? This curiosity about space and time continues to shape all my work.

Often, my photographs expand into immersive installations, allowing viewers to experience them with their whole bodies, not just their eyes. In I CAN’T SEE, a 120-meter labyrinth of black-and-white self-portraits at Cluj-Napoca’s Museum of Art, visitors walked through darkness and light, discovering images as they moved and listening to a guiding soundscape. More recently, I have incorporated live plants and natural elements into installations, bringing the outside world into gallery spaces.

In an era overwhelmed by marketed images, my work seeks to slow down through authentic image-making. Photography, for me, is a practice of presence and care—a way of honoring each moment, each place, and the light that passes through it, reminding us of the magic of simply being and paying attention.