Berlin Berlin
My analog photographs from Berlin during the time of reunification occasionally depict a Berlin that has since disappeared.
In the early 2000s, Berlin was a city in transition. At the time, you could still feel the difference between East and West—the former communist part and the part that had belonged to West Germany. The cars were different, the products in the shops were different, and even the traffic lights looked different.
Entirely new neighborhoods emerged, such as the area around Potsdamer Platz, while many buildings from the communist era—like the Palast der Republik—have since vanished. My photo series, created nearly 25 years ago, offers a glimpse into that Berlin.
The Blues Series
As a photographer, I have spent the past thirty years exploring the migration of the African American population in the United States.
At the beginning of the 20th century, they fled the cotton fields of the South and moved north - to St. Louis, Kansas City, and Chicago. They escaped troubled times marked by economic depression, racism, and a lack of life prospects. And as always, when people are on the move, they create something new—something that was just waiting for a spark.
They brought the blues to the cities of North America. That raw, acoustic music that told of everyday hardship along the Mississippi. They electrified the music, gave it a driving beat, and inspired generations of musicians.
My photographs tell the story of these musicians. In analog, unedited black-and-white images, I have preserved the memory of the last authentic blues musicians - Otis Clay, Ford Model T, Big Mama Thornton, and other artists who experienced turbulent times and dared to make a new beginning, far from home. And who managed to preserve their identity through the blues.
The blues sings of hardship - and precisely for that reason, it gives strength. Strength to leave troubled times behind, and strength to hope for better days.
The Boxing Series
The ring is small. Four ropes. A canvas floor. Two men moving.
Light falls hard from above, cutting the air into silver and shadow. Sweat drips. Breath rasps. The sound of leather on flesh is sharp and clean.
There is no music here. Only the rhythm of steps, the feint and strike, the sudden stillness before the next blow. It is a language without words—spoken in courage, in pain, in the will to keep standing.
I photograph it in black and white. No edits. No filters. Only the truth of the moment, the way the light touches a shoulder or catches the eyes between rounds.
This is boxing as I see it. Stripped of glamour. Bare to the bone.
The fight is never just in the ring. But here, under these lights, a man can know exactly who he is.
