The first photograph understood to depict me. (I am this and this is me.)

In Vienna, there was no poshness. To look carefully dressed seemed an expression of every value but wealth: care, self-love, respect for material, etc. I was 16 and earned myself a living and eight walls with photography.

At art school, among uniforms of individuality, the most important thing was to dress rather seriously.

Feeling: kings of the world, or our world. Any world, really.

Life as light as a feather: some photographs frighten me by means of the future that they question: will I drift ever further away from bygone easiness?


Relish of simple pleasures is the supreme discipline in a society that condemns them.

“Work is love made visible.” - Khalil Gibran.

Sudden rupture.

Had to leave: exile in the misantropics.

Exile two: up there. Where to?

From that image onwards, everything feels present. To be continued once that impression changes ...