There are moments when life hands you a punchline so good that, as a writer, you ought to be ashamed of it.
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This week I watched the British prime minister on TV announce a social media ban for everyone under sixteen. And I caught myself thinking it didn't sound half bad. The way I see it, social media belongs under scrutiny anyway, and a head of government willing to say so out loud is on solid ground with me, at least at first. Then I read up on how the British are reordering their whole digital world, and the ground started to crack.
I almost missed it because time flies by so fast, which is one of those standard clichés that everyone over 40 uses as if they've just discovered the secret of the universe. But it's true: this blog has been around for 10 years now. That's over 500 articles, all from my pen. Actually, I should say "from my keyboard," but that sounds less poetic.
So, I've turned fifty. Fifty. Finally a sensible number. None of that kiddie-party business of thirty or forty. Something solid. Half a century. Spelled out, it almost sounds like a geological unit of measurement.
Five fifteen in the morning. The alarm goes off in a stylish Airbnb in Alicante, and for one brief, undignified moment, I ask myself what I'm actually doing this for. Then it comes back to me: tourists. Or more precisely, the absence of them.
When I flew to Ibiza for a shoot for the first time thirteen years ago, I had zero clue about the island. Sure, party hotspot, hippies, expensive turf. The usual clichés, basically. For location scouting, I'd organized a local, a tip from a Dutch colleague. "What are you envisioning?" she asked during prep. I had this fixed idea about a big tree.
So there she stands. The next unfamiliar face. She extends her hand while her gaze scans the room. In exactly 180 minutes according to my mental stopwatch something is supposed to develop between us that money can't buy: a creative connection that produces extraordinary images.
There are these moments in photography that never cease to amaze me: beautiful nature meets feminine beauty, and suddenly a magical connection emerges. Especially during my shoots in Ibiza, I love how the Mediterranean wild plants add extra texture to the image. There are such amazing, wild flower meadows there! But sometimes, behind romantic names like "Wild Carrot" lurk unexpected properties.
The story sounds almost too absurd to be true: A lady of fine Victorian society supposedly fainted at the sight of an exposed ankle in 1866. Well, probably one of those contemporary exaggerations, but it tells us something fascinating about the power of cultural taboos.
It's early May, and while most people are just starting to think about their summer holidays, I'm pretty much done with my 2027 calendar. Those dreary months had to be good for something.
500 likes for the new image, seventeen heart emojis in the comments and then — bam! — that one comment: "I don't think it's that good." Eight words that ruin the party. Does this sound familiar? I certainly know it all too well.
Sometimes you light a creative fire and burn your fingers in the process. Or in this case: your eyelashes.
Somewhere on my hard drive, there's a folder with the working title "Girls-and-Cars." The name is so obviously provisional that I chose it deliberately at the time, just to avoid committing too early. That was 2020. I was researching cars from the seventies, those angular characters with chrome bumpers and personality. And the eighties, whose designers had apparently decided that sharp edges were underrated. I was looking for locations, for owners who didn't just hide their treasures in garages but actually drove them.
It's unbelievable. I wanted to search for a model on Instagram with whom I'm planning a photo shoot. Her name — and here's the kicker — is actually Lolita. Complete with passport and everything. What happened next was so absurd that I could hardly believe it: Instagram blocked my search before I could even submit it.
A nude photographer who has watched GNTM since the very first season, barely missed an episode, and honestly quite enjoys the show. I understand if you need a moment. So do I.
Sometimes I forget how foolish people can be. Not in terms of intellectual inferiority, but in their spectacular ability to ignore the most obvious connections.
The other day, while reviewing my behind-the-scenes videos for Patreon, I noticed something that's been on my mind ever since. For the first time, I really saw myself at work. Not just the results, but me, actually photographing. And honestly, I was a bit shocked.
Fuerteventura Airport. Among tired tourists and families with whining children, there she stands — freshly flown in from Barcelona, the new face for my island series. Tall, confident, with that look that instantly signals camera readiness. After the obligatory small talk during the drive, we move on to what's probably the most boring part for her, but the most revealing for me: our joint shopping trip.
It was a liberating feeling, I have to say. Deleted X and Facebook from my phone. Just gone. Those constant distractions that feel like a nervous tic you picked up somewhere along the way.
Do you still remember that feeling? Stumbling out of the cinema as a child, somehow dazed and intoxicated, with a head full of magical images and the unmistakable feeling of having just been in another world? I can still vividly recall how trips to the cinema in my childhood literally put me in a trance-like state. After the film, I always needed some time to return to reality.
Three years and seven months. That's how long it had been since my last portrait. I didn't count that myself; my photo software told me when I went looking for the image. And yes, I actually had to look.
Every few months, there's this moment when I restock my art shop. I sit in front of my archive, scrolling through thousands of images, and it hits me again: a good photograph isn't automatically a good wall print.
A fascinating headline that hasn't let me go since I read about the Beatles. Imagine: a single day in the studio and the entire first album is completed. Pure intuition, pure feeling — and a result that made music history.
It's just past midnight and I'm sitting in bed with my MacBook. Sounds like one of those moments where you catch yourself thinking, doesn't it? The thing is, I'm not really the type for late-night brooding. But sometimes, it just has to come out. This vague feeling that the world is slipping through my fingers. As if someone set the playback speed to 1.5x while I'm still trying to keep up at normal speed.
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