Iconoclasm

Imagine this: for seven weeks straight you wander through the world with a camera and a mission. Not a stiff assignment, not homework, a treasure hunt. Every week you pick five strange, stubborn, poetic, ridiculous, or unexpectedly profound themes, and you let them chase you through your days.

One moment you’re standing in a field trying to decide what a “modern landscape” even is. The next you’re crouched on the ground because the horizon suddenly belongs somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t be. Light and darkness argue in front of your lens, and you’re the referee. You turn something important around just to see what its backside has been hiding all this time. You watch people consume things, food, stuff, moments, and you try to catch the exact second when it becomes a story.

Sometimes the world shouts Boem, paukeslag! and you have no idea why, but you photograph it anyway. Sometimes the ordinary looks like it fell from another planet. Sometimes you swear Mondrian is whispering in your ear. Sometimes objects line up like they’re waiting for judgment. Sometimes love appears, or a kiss, or someone asleep who has no idea they’re part of your project now.

You follow nonsense by smell alone. You photograph yourself with a bird, or without gravity, whichever comes first. Traffic freezes. Justice wobbles. A woman becomes a man. Time stops. Fear taps you on the shoulder. A parking lot glows at night like a stage set. A still life becomes classical without asking permission. Something disappears and leaves only a trace. A grown‑up reveals the child inside. You make a self‑portrait where you’re present but unrecognizable. You step into an empty space and fill it with your gaze.

And when you think you’ve seen it all, Rothko walks by and nods at you.

Good luck, brave explorer. May inspiration ambush you when you least expect it.