Growing up in a relatively small city in Spain, the rest of the world roared through the imagination of my teenage self with an overwhelming vastness. But it was not only the world that called to me — there was also the awakening of a deeper need, something I couldn’t yet name.

Certain experiences — looking at the night sky, sensing the immensity of the unknown, becoming aware of the briefness of life, or simply realizing the strange fact of existing at all — left me with the feeling that reality contained something far larger than what could be explained rationally or materially. These questions are perhaps part of growing up for many people, but I happened to be stubborn enough to keep following them rather than suppressing them.

I left home young and lived nomadically between countries, cities, and jobs, drifting outside conventional paths while trying to reconcile the finite with the infinite through my own experience and understanding. Over the years, I lived many lives, but through every reinvention, uncertainty, and place I passed through, there was one constant quietly accompanying me: photography. The habit of looking through a camera became a way of relating to the world and understanding my place within it.

My early work moved through different stages: from using movement and atmosphere to express emotional states, to documenting the rhythms of cities and the poetry beneath ordinary moments. Eventually, that search led me away from the noise of urban life and toward natural landscapes where I found inner silence and a connection to the transcendental.

I didn’t know it then, but I was preparing myself to discover what would later become Taography.

The project emerged from the weathered surfaces of fishing boats, urban furniture, and other objects transformed by time and the elements. What initially drew me to these surfaces was an attraction to accidental beauty, alongside questions about the possibility that everything we know — nature, beauty itself, even our own existence — could ultimately be the product of accident and chance.

While photographing these surfaces, I began noticing something deeper: landscapes and patterns appearing spontaneously inside the decay — images that carried echoes of the natural world, as if nature itself were leaving traces of a hidden order. I became fascinated by the possibility that the same principles shaping coastlines, clouds, or galaxies might also reveal themselves in the smallest fragments of matter. Clouds appearing on the surface of cars mirrored those in the sky, weathered boats seemed to recall the coasts they once visited. Even cosmic sceneries appeared, hinting that the dynamics at play were universal. The images weren't abstract textures anymore, but some kind of natural records where the hidden mathematics of reality had left its fingerprints.

I am still not sure what this phenomenon ultimately means, but observing it and gathering evidence of it has brought me closer to the mystery itself. Working with these images, I experience a sense of connection to something larger than ourselves — a feeling that seems increasingly absent from contemporary life. Observing them also brings me peace, in a way similar to watching ocean waves, tree branches in the wind, or flames moving in darkness: something calming, rhythmic, and familiar; a deeper harmony that nature carries effortlessly within itself.

Taography gradually changed my relationship with photography. The creative space is shared with natural forces, and the camera becomes less a tool of control and more a bridge between the visible and the unseen. I no longer feel entirely like someone creating images, but more like a witness — or someone in dialogue with a phenomenon that cannot be fully defined or explained.

At a time when culture seems increasingly oriented toward anthropocentrism and artificial forms of intelligence and image production, I found myself moving in the opposite direction, turning my attention toward the vast field of natural intelligence already present in the world long before us. Taography approaches creativity not as something exclusively human, but as an intrinsic property of reality itself: a generative force continuously shaping our world across all scales of existence.

Although I have been working with photography since the early 2000s, my work has remained largely outside the formal structures of the art world, existing quietly as an ongoing exploration, with only a few independently produced exhibitions and publications. This distance allowed the work to develop slowly and without external pressures. What is being shared now is the visible emergence of something that has been forming over decades, much like the taographs themselves.

Selected works are available as one-of-a-kind canvases and limited-edition archival prints on paper.