Colored Air was the first name I gave to a change I did not yet understand.

The world itself had not become different, but my relationship to it had. Familiar places began to feel strangely vivid. The ordinary resisted its own familiarity. Children playing in the street, an old man sitting outside his home, flowers returning with the seasons, evening light moving across a familiar wall, nothing extraordinary had happened, yet everything seemed quietly charged with a presence I had spent years overlooking.

The title came before I understood what it meant. It described a feeling more than an idea, as though even the air itself had become saturated with something I had not noticed before.

These photographs were made among the people and places closest to me, my family, my village, the cities I move through, and the ordinary rhythms that shape them. They are not attempts to preserve these moments against time, nor to transform them into symbols. They are traces of encounters, brief moments in which the world quietly revealed itself before returning once again to the ordinary.