A week in Provence, photographed slowly

Seven mornings, one road, and the discipline of photographing the same field until it finally says something.

I went back to the same stretch of road every morning for a week. On the first day it was nothing: a field, a fence, a line of cypress against a flat sky. By the fourth it had begun to reveal a structure.

Repetition is underrated in photography. Returning strips away the impulse to be impressed, and what remains is the actual subject — texture, weather, the small daily difference between one morning and the next.

The frames I kept are almost identical to a stranger. To me they are a week of my life, arranged in order.