A collage of directions, none of them clear.

It’s a collage: reflections, fragments, and movement stitched together.
I was playing with light when direction forgot which way to go.
Funny how combining moments can make time and space feel like they’re all happening at once.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Same light, different drama.

What if your reflection didn’t represent you?
What if it had its own posture, its own way of looking back, close enough to resemble you, but just off enough to make you wonder? Sometimes reflections feel like that: not copies, but versions.
Maybe that’s why I like photographing them, they tell me who I might be, not who I am.

 

 Location: Home, Portugal

Master of indoor camouflage.

Sometimes he just blends in, like he’s part of the house now.
Quiet, motionless, pretending he’s invisible while clearly enjoying the attention.
If confidence had a texture, it would look exactly like this.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

A puddle pretending to be the sky.

It had just stopped raining. I looked down and found this tiny piece of sky trapped in a puddle: clouds, trees, light, everything upside down but somehow still right.
I like when the world folds in on itself like this, when above and below forget their place for a moment.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Part plant, part pulse.

Light, color, reflection: all arguing for attention. The leaf turned into something else, part plant, part pulse. It feels alive in a louder way, the way I like it.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

A small hand from the other side of the glass.

I was just testing how light bends through water, but then this tiny hand showed up: mine, but not quite. There’s something about moments like this that feels both funny and strange. You start out playing with shadows, and somehow end up face to face with yourself, or at least, a smaller, distorted version trying to reach back.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Somewhere under all this rain, still standing.

It was raining so much that the world outside turned into a watercolor painting: soft, shifting, and a little melancholic.The window turned into a canvas of tiny galaxies and there I was, half reflection, half puddle ghost.
Rain has a way of making everything look dramatic, even just standing there doing absolutely nothing.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Two vases. Or so I thought.

I swear there were only two vases. Then the light got involved and suddenly there were… more?
It’s funny how ordinary things refuse to stay ordinary the moment you actually look at them.
Maybe that’s why I like them, they keep gaslighting reality, just a little.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Caught in the pause between thought and reflection.

Sometimes I wonder if the camera sees more than I do, the in-between version, the one that lives in the pause between two thoughts. When I saw the picture, I recognized something, that quiet blur between who I feel I am and who I appear to be.
Maybe that’s what self-portraits really capture: not the surface, but the shifting space beneath it.

Location: Home, Portugal.

Caught between reflections and comic book physics.

Didn’t expect Flash Gordon to show up in my photo, but here he is, saving the universe one reflection at a time. My hand turned into some kind of sci-fi distortion, like I accidentally time-traveled into a 70s comic panel.
Guess I’m fine with that, the world could use a bit more accidental adventure.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Half reflection, half shadow: somewhere in between.

I wasn’t really planning to take this one. I just noticed how the reflection split me into pieces, shadow on one side, metal lines on the other. It looked strangely organized for something so accidental. There’s something about seeing yourself like this, half there, half not, that feels honest. 
Maybe that’s how we all are most days, trying to fit between the lines, but never quite flat enough to stay inside them.
 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Raindrops dancing on my window.

Rainy days make me feel like the world hit pause, and honestly, I don’t mind it.
The tree outside my window turns into this soft watercolor version of itself, like it’s posing for a dream instead of a photo.
I always tell myself I’ll be productive while it rains, but somehow I end up just staring at the drops racing down the glass.
Maybe that is a kind of productivity: existing slowly.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

The world, seen from his nose.

Everywhere I turn, he’s there, soft fur, quiet eyes, sunlight finding him first. Maybe it’s coincidence, maybe it’s gravity.
Either way, my camera seems to orbit around him.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Touching what isn’t really there.

There’s something intimate about this image.Two parts of myself meeting for a second: one solid, one made of light and shadow. I didn’t plan it, but it feels like a quiet handshake between the visible and the invisible.
 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

A small rebellion of color.

I was playing with light, angles, reflections, trying to bend the world a little. This rainbow haze appeared, part accident, part control.
I like when reality looks like it’s trying to remember a dream.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

 

A confident little shadow.

It’s funny how simple shapes can start to look alive once light joins the game. Maybe it’s a wave, maybe it’s a sound, maybe it’s just my brain filling in the blanks. Either way, it looked way too confident for a shadow.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Through the glass, it’s hard to tell where he ends and I begin.

He’s not just in the photo: he’s in the light, in the pause between breaths, in the warmth that stays when the day fades. There’s something about dogs - they don’t need to understand us to see right through us.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Took a photo. Got stared at. Fair trade.

You know when you take a photo and it feels like someone looked back?
Like I accidentally caught a presence hiding in plain sight: not a person, not exactly a reflection, but something between both.
This one made me laugh. I swear it’s got attitude.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

When color speaks, I listen.

Not every frame needs a story. Sometimes it’s enough to stop, notice the light, and let color do the talking.
Maybe that’s meaning enough.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

More soul than words.

She’s called Masafi.
I swear dogs exist to remind us what unconditional presence feels like - no words, no expectations, just quiet understanding.
Sometimes she looks at me as if she’s the one holding the camera, and I’m the subject she’s trying to figure out.
 

Location: Home, Portugal 

Some days, I blur before I shine.

Some days feel like I’m swimming through static: too many layers, too many versions of me fighting to surface.
But somehow, light always finds a way in.
Even when I don’t see it, it’s already reaching for me.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

My daily view: the same trees, always different.

These are the pines outside my window, the ones that remind me to look up, to breathe, to stay. They change with the light, but they’re always there. A quiet kind of company.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Color never asks for permission.

Sometimes creation feels exactly like this: a burst of color spinning out of control, refusing to sit still. It’s messy, bright, unpredictable… but alive.
This is what I love most about experimenting with photography - catching that fleeting rhythm between chaos and clarity, when the world doesn’t quite make sense but somehow feels right.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Half sky, half water, fully confused.

Just here, standing by the pool of existence, fully committed to not making sense - but in style.
Somewhere between sky and water, reflection and reality, I found balance… or at least a good reason to wear colorful socks.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Dancing without meaning to.

Some moments don’t need witnesses, just light, movement, and me.
The shadow stretched, the leaves swayed, and for a second it felt like something bigger than me was borrowing my outline.
It’s funny how the smallest gestures - a tilt of the arm, a flicker of light - can look like celebration when seen from the right angle. Maybe that’s what joy really is: a quiet rebellion against stillness.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Tunnel vision, but make it chaotic.

Focus, they say. Easy for them to say when their brain isn’t juggling seventeen tabs at once.
Mine feels more like a tunnel: narrow, unpredictable, and occasionally leading straight into a wall.
Still, every now and then, the light lines up just right. And for a brief moment, it all makes sense - until it doesn’t again.
Work in progress, permanently under construction.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Somewhere between order and chaos… that’s where I find myself.

There’s something hypnotic about watching chaos and order try to coexist. On one side, pure movement, light bending through color, emotion shifting like water. On the other, clean lines, control, precision.
It feels like watching two parts of myself in quiet disagreement: one that dreams in rainbows, another that plans in patterns. And right in the middle, where they blur together, is the moment I feel most alive.
Maybe that’s the point - we’re all just trying to live in that narrow spectrum where feeling meets form.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Half hidden, half light.

Sometimes it feels like I’m documenting something that’s still being built: not just in front of me, but within me.
The light, the shadow, the makeshift screen… all part of a small stage where I’m both the observer and the scene.
Even behind the curtain, the story finds a way to show itself.

 

Location: Home, Portugal.

Heels in print, sneakers in practice.

When the book says heels, but reality says comfort.
I’ve always loved the idea of shoes as symbols - they carry stories about style, status, and even identity. This book promises elegance, glamour, the kind of high fashion that struts on a runway. But then there’s the reflection: my Converse, the ones I’ve always gravitated toward.
High fashion on the cover, high tops in the mirror.
Somewhere between what we’re told to wear and what we choose to wear, our real self walks out. And mine, more often than not, is laced up in colorful sneakers rather than balancing on heels.

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Two versions, one reality slip.

Sometimes I wonder if, in another reality, I’m standing just like this, holding the same circle, but seeing it from a different angle. One self tangled in leaves, the other etched in shadow.
It’s still me, but slightly shifted, living parallel lives that almost touch.
Two selves, two dimensions, meeting for a moment in-between.

 

Location: Home, Portugal. 

Even fakes can watch.

A wooden hand holding a Polaroid of painted eyes - fake watching fake. And yet, somehow, it still feels like the image is staring back. That’s the trick of it: props and paint, shadows and paper, all conspiring to give the illusion of being seen. Playful, absurd, and just unsettling enough to make you wonder who’s really looking at who.
 

Location: Home, Portugal.