Bruce Gilden. His work resonates with me on a deeply personal level, particularly because, like him, I grew up in tough circumstances that profoundly shaped my view of the world. From a young age, I learned to observe and appreciate the complexities of human nature, and Gilden’s photography captures that same depth and nuance in a way that feels incredibly authentic.

Gilden's book “Only God Can Judge Me” left a profound impression on me. To me, it encapsulates his uniquely brilliant style and unwavering commitment to unveiling the harsh realities faced by marginalized communities. His ability to capture evocative expressions has deeply influenced my own approach to photography.

Bruce Gilden — Only God Can Judge Me

Photographers whose work I truly love and find deeply inspiring include:
Weegee
Mark Cohen
Kohei Yoshiyuki
Tatsuo Suzuki
Kevin Carter

Yes, working at close range often leads to challenges, but I believe it's crucial not to shy away from getting close. Capturing a subject’s expression is the most vital aspect of my photography, and achieving the desired intimacy means deliberately entering someone's personal space. This proximity can put people on edge.

For instance, while photographing an underworld figure during an intense moment, he grew angry, his eyes turned black, and for a split second, I thought he might lash out or reach for the gun I knew he had in his jacket. It's not uncommon for me to face resentment from the people I photograph.

In moments like that, I stay calm and make it clear that I’m not a journalist or working with the authorities. I tell them right away that I’m an artist, and that often changes the atmosphere for the better. Letting people know my intentions from the start is important. I speak to them respectfully and explain why I want to shoot their portrait. It's essential to respect the individuals you photograph and to always stay grounded in the purpose of your work.

I often find myself alone, photographing people on the fringes of society, those living in unstable or volatile circumstances. These situations can quickly turn unpredictable. Some of the people I meet may be armed or involved in criminal environments. But I’ve learned how to read people with precision.

That ability has its roots in my childhood. I grew up around unpredictable personalities, and over time I developed a natural instinct for sensing shifts in mood, intention, and energy. It’s not about being fearless. It’s about being aware and respectful. I know when and how to speak, when to listen, and when to step back. In the end, I often manage to connect with those others struggle to approach.

That awareness has helped me defuse tension, avoid escalation, and walk away from encounters that could have gone very differently. It’s a survival skill, but also a key part of what allows me to get close and create honest work.

Get close. You’ll feel like you’re engaging in a bullfight. Be bold. If someone gets upset, remain calm, explain your intentions and purpose, and listen with empathy. If someone asks you to delete the photograph, simply do so, even though photographing in public places is completely legal, and confirm you’ve removed it. Others just won’t care; they’ll think you’re just one of the many nuts encountered in the city.

I'm not particularly drawn to commercial photography, but if I were to take on commercial work, it would be within the fashion industry, especially the darker and more avant-garde side. I’ve always been inspired by Rick Owens. His designs, his shows, and his entire universe are incredibly powerful. And Michèle Lamy… wow, she’s a true artist in every sense. The work they create together is raw, fearless, and full of character. That’s the kind of world I could see myself contributing to.

No.
What drives me is the space where clean documentary, free from journalistic agendas, meets pure art. That is where the work comes alive and feels most meaningful. Politics and journalism lie outside my interests. They do not belong in the world I am trying to build.

My focus is human behavior: the quiet gestures, the tension in a face, the weight of presence. These subtle moments carry a kind of truth. That is where my attention rests.

I’m a big fan of the Coen Brothers, especially The Big Lebowski, No Country for Old Men, and the Fargo TV series. What I admire most is how they build characters that feel entirely original. They’re real, strange, cool, and sometimes even ridiculous.

Their dialogue is just as distinctive. It can be deadpan, surreal, or quietly unsettling, but it always fits the character and the moment.

My favorite film is The Big Lebowski. It’s more than a cult classic for me. What stands out is the tone and how well the characters fit together. The Dude moves through life without much control or urgency, surrounded by people and situations he can’t quite make sense of. But he sticks to his own laid-back logic. One of his most iconic lines captures this perfectly:

“That rug really tied the room together.”

It’s funny because the rug wasn’t anything special. His apartment is nearly empty, messy, and worn down. But to him, that rug brought a kind of order. That mix of sincerity and absurdity reveals how he sees his world.

The Fargo TV series is some of the most compelling television I have seen. It keeps the spirit of the original film but expands it with characters just as strong. One moment in particular stands out:

Ida: “So he's just standing in the parking lot, having a milkshake, and a hailstone comes down, size of a softball, crushes his skull.”
Molly: “What flavor?”
Ida: “Strawberry, I think.”

It’s grim, dry, and strangely funny. The flat delivery makes the weight of it hit even harder. The tone speaks for itself without needing explanation.

No Country for Old Men is colder and more minimal, but just as powerful. Chigurh barely speaks, but when he does, every word hits with precision. In one scene, right before executing a man, he says:

“If the rule you followed brought you to this, of what use was the rule?”

There’s no yelling or drama, just that line. Cold, philosophical, final. He doesn’t raise his voice or explain himself. Just that one cold line. It’s calm, but it hits harder than violence.

What stays with me most is how the Coens portray people. Their characters carry something offbeat, something raw. Whether it’s the detached calm of Anton Chigurh, the tragic awkwardness of Lester Nygaard, or the laid-back stubbornness of the Dude, they all feel like real people shaped by their own strange logic. That’s what I connect with.