About me

I am Belgian of Polish origin and live in Brussels, a city of passages, whispers and fractures. I was shaped by my grandmothers, by their fragmented stories, their silences heavy with memory, and their dignified way of moving through life without complaint. From my maternal grandmother, I also inherited a particular sensitivity to invisible presences, deep intuitions, and those subtle signs that sometimes pass through reality without ever truly explaining themselves. I grew up surrounded by ancient beliefs, by a quiet yet living spirituality, in which the visible world was never entirely separate from what lies beyond it. 

Words, too, have always been part of my story. My mother is a poet, and writing has accompanied her throughout her life. My father, passionate about history, passed on to me a love of stories, historical intrigues, ancient texts, and those fragments of the past that tell the story of the world and Poland. I also think of my great-grandfather Marian, a man who loved to write, whom I remember for his beautiful handwriting and his gift for words. Perhaps these presences planted something within me that, over time, became an inevitability.

There may be something in this lineage that goes beyond words themselves. A way of passing something on without knowing it, of leaving traces behind that continue their journey long after we are gone. At times, I feel that writing did not simply come to me; that it was waiting for me somewhere, like an ancient memory of which I, in turn, became the keeper.

I have been writing since the age of thirteen. Very early on, I learned to observe before speaking, to listen before writing. My first poems, deeply personal and often autobiographical, remain private to this day. I keep them as traces of an inner journey, that of an adolescent and later a man searching for words for what he was experiencing. Writing has allowed me to face life, to move through certain hardships, to give form to what might otherwise have remained unspoken. And sometimes, simply, not to drown.

I am a poet above all. Poetry has never been an exercise for me, nor simply an aesthetic refuge, but a way of inhabiting the world, of experiencing its tensions and perceiving what lies just beneath the surface of people and things. What I write often takes root in lived experience, not to expose it, but to reveal the wounds and the quiet beauty found at the heart of the ordinary. Poetry has taught me slowness, the weight of the right word, and the intuition that silence can sometimes contain more than long speeches.

This same attentiveness naturally found its way into photography. I remain at a distance, a sensitive observer, attentive to details, to small gestures, and to anonymous lives that cross paths without seeing one another. I photograph in black and white, drawn to its purity and unadorned truth.

My images capture street life, its fleeting moments, anonymous presences, gestures and glances that often go unnoticed. I seek what escapes the hurried eye: light falling on a wall, the fold of a coat, a silhouette disappearing around a street corner. Nothing is fabricated, nothing is staged. Only matter, light, and life as it presents itself, raw and poetic at once. Each photograph thus becomes a suspended moment, a fragment in which the vulnerability and quiet beauty of human beings may reveal themselves.

This approach to black-and-white photography is inspired, in part, by the work of Danuta Rago (1934–2000), a Polish photographer whose discreet and attentive gaze upon everyday life has deeply marked me. Her work taught me, in its own way, to look more closely at simple things, to search in a shadow, a light or an ordinary gesture for what words alone sometimes struggle to express.

I also practise colour photography, turning towards other spaces of contemplation: landscapes, nature, the sea and animals. There I seek light, nuances and the silent presences of the living world. Here again, it is neither about demonstrating nor possessing, but simply about bearing witness to a quiet sense of wonder at the simple and wild beauty that surrounds us.

Between words and images, I build a kind of bubble. A space of withdrawal, but also of lucidity, where sensitivity can be embraced as a quiet strength. A place where memory, intuition, fragments of lives and inhabited silences meet. A space for those who know that not everything can be said, that silence sometimes speaks, and that beauty often reveals itself where we least expect it.