Quiet moments,
distant geographies.
Documentary and street photography from fifty-eight countries, twenty-five years. Human-focused work — Cartier-Bresson's geometry, Koudelka's silence, Ara Güler's Istanbul.
A quarter-century at home.
The country I live in, and where I began photography. Ferry mornings on the Bosphorus, Ashura processions in Eyüp, the coffee-scented streets of Ankara, the vegetable markets of the Aegean, the quiet towns of Anatolia, Black Sea villages buried in fog. For more than a quarter-century I have photographed the same cities with different cameras, the same faces at different ages. Photographing Türkiye is a question that keeps calling you back — despite everything that changes, the same light, the same waiting, the same habit of sitting side by side over tea. I began here, and I continue here.
Twenty-five years of frames across half a dozen camera bodies — Yashica film, Sony A7R series, Fuji X-T5 and X100VI, Sigma Foveons. The same streets photographed at different ages.
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After the earthquake, twice.
Two separate visits, one obsession — the silent calm in faces. From the crowded temple courtyards of Kathmandu to the lake at Pokhara, from the mud-brick squares of Bhaktapur to the smoky mornings of the Himalayan foothills. My first visit came in the immediate aftermath of the 2015 earthquake; when I returned years later I found the same market stalls rebuilt — a kind of continuity only photography can remember. The mountains are always there, but the real matter is not on the mountain; it is the smile in the market, the old hand resting in the temple courtyard, the young monk on his tea break.
Two visits, both after the 2015 earthquake — the first in its immediate aftermath, the second years later. Sony A7 series for the first trip, Fuji X-T5 for the second — two cameras, the same questions.
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One journey is not enough.
Rajasthan's orange dawns, smoky evenings on Varanasi's ghats, the chai-smoke-train-crowd density of New Delhi, camel traders bargaining at the Pushkar fair, children's games among the golden sandstone walls of Jaisalmer. India does not forgive photography — you either enter it fully, or remain a tourist. After a single journey I still feel I am on the surface; but when even the surface is this rich, there is no reason to hesitate to dig.
One journey in 2018 — Rajasthan, Varanasi, and Delhi, mostly with the Sony A7R II and the 55mm Zeiss. Selected by the Embassy of India in Ankara as a 'Photographer Friend of India' (2018).
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Two weeks, a country on hold.
Fifty-year-old Chevrolets on every corner, gleaming courtyards behind crumbling pastel façades, old men playing dominoes in doorways, a radio on a balcony, the last salsa falling into the street. Cuba is the country of waiting time — you're in no hurry, yet everything feels about to change. It was the first year after Castro's death; the streets carried a sense of dilemma, the future still entirely uncertain. That uncertainty is still in these frames.
Two weeks, one camera — Sony A7R II — between Havana and Trinidad. The first year after Castro; the streets carried the weight of a sentence not yet finished.
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Ten days, a borrowed silence.
Two years before the coup, in the country's last open days. Ten days from Yangon's colonial remnants to Mandalay's wooden monasteries, to Bagan's dust-colored plains spread with two thousand pagoda silhouettes, to the one-legged Intha fishermen rowing on Inle Lake. Photographing a country's last quiet breath always merges with a sadness left behind. These frames are now a record — of a Myanmar the tourist didn't see, the memory of a day that will not return.
Yangon to Bagan, Mandalay to Inle. Shot on Fuji X-H1 with the 16–55mm. No assistant, no plan beyond walking until something asked to be photographed.
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Twelve years, an archipelago of returns.
Twelve years, four visits, an island-by-island memory. Crater smoke at dawn on Java's Bromo, the bicycle-lined back streets of Yogyakarta, rainy afternoons in Ubud and rice-field festivals in Bali, jungle markets in Sumatra, the clap-stroke oars of Komodo fishermen. Indonesia is not a country but an archipelago — the language changes, the cooking changes, even the light changes. Each time I found a different Indonesia; each time the same warm, smiling openness.
Four visits, every camera I owned at the time — from a Sony NEX-7 in 2011 to the Fuji X-T5 in 2023. The light changes between islands, and between years.
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Thirty-one series, six hundred frames.
Each country visited slowly, often more than once. The thread between them is patience — sitting in the same square long enough that the square forgets you.
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