I spent several years wondering if I was bipolar, as I would go from an extreme state of joy and euphoria to a state of deep sadness and darkness. At a certain time I ended up seeing many psychiatrists trying desperately to find answers to the questions generated by my tormented being, but in vain. I was constantly overwhelmed by a feeling of floating where nothing seemed real enough for me to believe in it and fully experience it.

At this moment photography became a key element in the self-psychoanalysis I had embarked on. Photography helped me to put images on my feelings, visualize my emotions and constitute a proof of my existence, I was like a spectator of the emotional roller coaster I was sailing on. The images made my emotions palpable and therefore less hostile, I could finally tame them and leave little by little the abyss of fear in which I had locked myself.

So I began to photograph bits of my daily life from morning to night, everything that generated an emotion in me; a soft light, people dear to my heart, the beautiful fragility of a flower, an ephemeral shadow ... etc.. but also to transcribe my emotions through self-portrait.

After analyzing the photographs I noticed that I was going from a very soothing atmosphere during the day to a rather disturbing atmosphere at night. The loneliness I was facing at night made the masks fall, leaving me alone in front of my demons. But strangely enough, the more pictures I took, the better I felt, as if my pain was gradually absorbed by these fragments of my existence forever trapped in images