I came to photograph, and found that I was being read. By skies and light that arrived without announcement, by waves carving the same cliff face differently each hour, by an inner landscape that refused to remain still long enough to be held.

The challenge was to pause, to press the shutter at the right moment, both mentally and physically, while navigating unfamiliar ground in a light that changed without warning. Clouds, waves, mist: nothing here holds its form. I could not predict the sequence of events, but I could study their movement and follow where they led.

Each photograph in this body of work is placed beside an abstract painted surface. In painting, the image solidifies only when both the medium and the painter have ceased to act, movement arrested by mutual stillness. In photography, movement exists on either side of the captured moment; I isolate a fragment of something that continues. In the encounter between these two silences, a new kind of dialogue becomes visible: between the frozen and the fluid, between darkness and the light that cuts through it.

I am drawn to what animist thought describes as the agency of the non-human world, the sense that cliffs, water, stone, and sky are not passive surfaces but presences, each carrying its own force. This is not a belief I hold intellectually so much as one my eye enacts instinctively, in the choice of a frame, the reading of a reflection, the moment before the shutter closes. The poems that accompany each work are written in French, my first language, the one closest to the body and to early perception.