Over four days of regatta coverage, I worked solo to produce daily recap videos alongside real-time social media content. The challenge wasn’t only the pace of the races, but the need to operate across multiple layers of storytelling at once — immediate vertical content, structured daily edits, and the foundation for a final recap film.

Working handheld with Sony A7III and GoPro, and adapting to changing conditions — including the loss of stabilization mid-event — the project became an exercise in responsiveness, endurance, and trust in experience.

What remained constant was the need to stay close to the rhythm of the water, anticipate moments, and translate them into something both immediate and lasting.

A meditation on silence in the age of constant information, and how sailing and surfing reconnect us to rhythm, presence, and the natural world.

A Logbook reflection on anticipation, place, and photographic intent. An image imagined long before it was taken, shaped by patience, knowledge of the landscape, and the precise alignment of light, wind, and waves. A meditation on how thought becomes image.

It was more a clear sense of alignment. As if pieces that had long been scattered were beginning to fall naturally into place. The decision I was making—reorienting my work, bringing together my years of experience in audiovisual production, advertising, and cinema with my origin, with boats, and with that ancient relationship to the sea—found there a silent confirmation.

The museum’s request was simple: to translate this fragile album — too delicate to be displayed — into a small digital slideshow for a corner of the permanent exhibition. A gesture of preservation. A way of keeping the object visible without exposing it to further harm.

We live in a time of content images—images made for algorithms, for reach, for speed. They’re designed to disappear. To perform well, then vanish. And they do. That’s their purpose. But that’s not photography. Not in the deeper sense.

There is something strangely intimate about opening a machine that has witnessed so much of your life. Screw by screw, layer by layer, until the fault revealed itself

There’s a line in Neil Young’s Slowpoke that I keep returning to, one that seems to shift shape each time I hear it:
“When I was faster, I was always behind.”

Everywhere you turn, someone is selling visibility — courses, shortcuts, formulas for relevance. The promise is always the same: be seen, stay seen, never disappear.

The human brain isn’t wired for such an infinite feed of visual inputs. It’s wired for attention. For focus. For meaning.

But digital platforms—especially social media—reward volume over vision, speed over substance.
Content flows endlessly, numbing our receptors and conditioning our eyes to scroll rather than to see.

We are flooded with photographs. Billions taken, shared, and forgotten—daily. And yet, I remain convinced that photography is one of the most powerful and deeply human acts we have.

We think of seeing as what the eye does, but it’s closer to what the whole being feels. Each image emerges from that convergence — from the conversation between intuition and matter, between air and water, between the inner tremor and the outer world.

Captain Nemo wasn’t a childhood reading. He was a fissure. A signal.
At a time in my life when I still believed adventures were external territories —sea monsters, uncharted horizons, technology waiting to be conquered— he appeared.
Solitary. Lucid. Faithful to his own compass.
Not a hero. Not a villain. Something more unsettling: someone who had chosen to live by his own principles, even if it cost him the world.

Sailing Wildflower, our 420 Nordet, offers a timeless family experience, teaching the joy of sailing and embracing life's slower, more peaceful pace.

“It’s the oldest one still sailing, until someone proves otherwise.”

Horizontal stage direction defines most live performances…

They see a blade. I see an archive.

Óscar doesn't work the sea; he belongs to it.
There’s no separation between body, craft, and water. Everything is measured. Everything is cradled.

That’s why I keep doing this.
And why I believe that the right client will care.