THE TINY STUDIO

I didn’t start with a studio, or even the idea of building one, but simply with an existing space—a private living space where I sleep, live, and think, and which, over time, transformed into something else without ever truly ceasing to be itself.

This space was never empty; it wasn’t waiting for anything, and yet, every day, it changes roles. It becomes a place of creation before returning, come evening, to an intimate, almost silent place, as if nothing had happened there.

Three meters by three meters is not a surface area one chooses to build a studio; it is a constraint one accepts, a limit to work with, and one that forces a total rethinking of how to work, move, and see.
Very quickly, the lack of space became obvious—not as a problem to be solved, but as a condition to be understood and tamed. Here, there is no room for messy improvisation; every gesture must be precise, every movement measured, every angle considered. Organization then becomes essential, almost instinctive; every object finds its place not by chance but by necessity, and every square centimeter is used with care, as if the space itself dictated its own rules.

It was from this logic that The Tiny Studio was born—a simple, almost obvious name that doesn't try to exaggerate what it is, but instead affirms its rawest reality: a tiny studio, embraced, limited, but fully utilized.

I only work with one session per day, by choice, because this space does not allow for rushing. Each session requires time—usually three to four hours—to welcome, talk, observe, adjust, and finally create something sincere. I can only host two people at a time, which immediately transforms the atmosphere; there is no crowd, no unnecessary noise, only a presence—a relationship that builds gradually, almost naturally.

The decor is intentionally simple, composed of only a few elements: printed backdrops with various textures, a single armchair, a wooden chair, a wooden table, and an apple box. Each of these objects is not there to "furnish" the room, but to serve, to accompany, and to suggest. The armchair, the chair, and the table become, in turn, supports, anchor points, or extensions of the model's body—silent tools that participate in the construction of the image without ever dominating it.

In this reduced space, everything becomes denser, more concentrated, as if physical limits forced a form of truth—a simplicity that one doesn't always seek in vaster environments.

And then, when the session ends, the lights go out, and the objects return to their places, the studio disappears almost immediately, giving way back to the living space, as if this transformation had been but a passage, a parenthesis in the day. The Tiny Studio is not a fixed place or a permanent set; it is a state, a way of occupying a space, of transforming it temporarily to create before returning it to its primary function.

This constant back-and-forth between private life and workspace creates a particular relationship with the location—a proximity that inevitably influences the way I photograph, host others, and exist within this space. Ultimately, this studio was not born from an ideal choice, but from a concrete reality; and it is precisely this reality, with its constraints and limits, that gives it its identity today.