ZA :

I noticed that your artworks are entrenched in the Japanese style of photography which is focused on minimalism, geometry, and dark contrasts. How did you arrive at this style of image-making, and what drew you to keep working with it?

PC :

The simplest answer is, it’s the only way I know how to work. My home is a minimalist space, furnished only with essentials, gifts from friends, art, and my favorite photo books. Minimalism helps me take away the noise and clutter, and helps me discover the true essence of something. On a less philosophical note: During my first travels in Japan, I became fascinated by the woodblock prints (ukiyo-e) of Kato Teruhide, and I wanted to achieve this woodblock approach with photography. The deep contrasts not only simplify an image, but they also convey emotional depth. The book ‘Chizu’ (The Map) by Kikuji Kawada, employs dark contrasts to express deep traces and emotions of the photographer and the Japanese people in the post-war era. I have been deeply moved by this book, and it has had a profound impact on my life. Apart from the tonalities, it is also the experimental approach to book making that has stayed with me.

ZA :

There is such a strong sense of tactility in your photography. The elements that come together to make the photograph are as integral as the image itself. Would you be able to give us an insight into your process of creation?

PC :

I enjoy working from a playful state when collecting material or photographing. For me, technique is not as important as intuition. It’s only later in my atelier that I sort of become a perfectionist. I love using unique, handmade Japanese paper and printing with noble techniques, merging the image and paper into a singular object.

ZA :

I live my childhood dream of pursuing aeronautics through the celestial art of photographers and writers that I admire. You so tenderly weave together nature, space, and static time in your frames, and I was wondering what draws you to work with these themes.

PC :

Love the poetry in your question. I believe that childhood can contain certain numinous moments, something that can give a sort of almost cosmic inspiration. I experienced this with the sea close to our family home which has an enormous tidal effect - the waters ebb and flow twice a day. At low tide, you can walk out across the mudflats and witness a myriad of life, including multitudes of birds. Then later at high tide, the same area is completely submerged by two meters of water. During our long childhood summers, we would lose all sense of time and sometimes spend so long at the shore, that the sea had time to rise, fall, and rise again. At night, the lighthouse would flash through my childhood bedroom window every four seconds, and my grandparents used to tell me it was watching over us. These experiences meant that from a very young age, I was acutely aware of the perpetual rhythms of the island, like the cosmic phenomenon of the moon controlling the tides, and the passing of the seasons. That enduring sense of rhythm has had a profound effect on my work and has served as a foundation for my practice.

ZA :

In your exhibition Remembering You (2022) at Bildhalle Amsterdam, a ginkgo leaf from Japan prompted a nostalgic set of over 200 images. There is a sense of fleetingness in the imagery, and I was hoping you could talk about this body of work and what it memorialises.

PC :

This repetitive project is about processing a loss. I once heard a Japanese tale about a man who lost his beloved, and would stack one stone per day after she passed as a ritual. I went through a similar period of grief. Every morning, I would make a cup of green tea, photograph a single ginkgo leaf, and release a loving thought. I chose working with the leaf because I am in awe of its shape, and it’s considered to be a living fossils. The gingko leaf has existed on Earth for a long time without a change in its characteristic, and symbolizes longevity, hope, and wisdom.

ZA :

When I immerse myself in your craft, I am accompanied by a silent tune in the background that follows the symphony of wind and gilding water. I did read that you were a sound composer before turning to photography. Do you think that it has helped in attaining this lyrical quality that exists in your imagery?

PC :

That’s beautiful, I like that as well; ambient tones lift you up to a higher frequency. There are many parallels between photography and composing sound. I dare to go so far as to say it is equivalent. Composing is a beautiful word. It is the process of listening to what a work wants to be. You can compose with sound, but also with photographs. During sound compositions, I always envisioned images. And now, I approach the photo book as a score.

ZA :

Since you have had significant experience in making as well as publishing photobooks, could you delve into the idea of ‘going beyond the single image?’ How do you think that the presentation of a photograph influences the comprehension of it?

PC :

I find it to be magical when unconnected and intuitive images form a relationship with one another when you start moving them around. Just by playing with small prints on the ground, the narrative writes itself. The presentation of the photo must support and follow this understanding. I don’t think you should force a project into a book. It might be that it actually calls for a projection or something completely different. But it’s wonderful when the book can be a home for the narrative, a house where your images live. With books, you can do so much, but we must be careful that the design must not dominate the project. In books, just like in a film, the supporting roles are very important to the main actors. All elements, such as dimensions, weight, paper texture, transparency, and binding, should serve the narrative.

ZA :

Is there ever a sense of boredom that seeps into working with similar themes/patterns? As an artist who is drawn to very particular ideas, I am often harsh on myself to explore something new. Are you ever burdened by this feeling? And if yes, how do you overcome it and continue the act of creation?

PC :

I very much relate to what you’re expressing. When your work becomes repetitive, almost formulaic, it loses its originality. Continual reinvention is essential. Naturally, this process has its highs and lows. I find Eastern wisdom, particularly the concept of ‘Mu,’ very helpful in transcending this challenge. For me, ‘Mu’ symbolizes a foundational attitude. I believe that inspiration often springs from a place beyond yes or no. It’s a natural principle that emptiness seeks fulfillment. Like an empty room longing to be filled with light. So, sometimes it’s just a matter of cleaning up the house, and then beginning to create. Answers come through the act of engaging. Just go out with a small camera, walk, breathe, trust, let go, and observe what unfolds.