Swiss Made

Suddenly, you're adrift in a place that’s not your own. The air is different here—thinner, almost clinical—and everything around you feels like it’s waiting to be learned. A new house, a new neighborhood, unfamiliar turns that you must learn quickly. But as you move through these spaces, searching with the vague hope of discovery, you find instead the echoes of old habits. Familiar routines dressed in new clothes, set against a sky that is not yours—a less forgiving sky, perhaps, but one that has its own austere beauty. 

A sky that can throw down snow, cast a cold, indifferent light, and whip up a wind that is neither warm nor biting, just gray. I find myself jotting down these thoughts as I drive down roads that feel more like sketches than finished lines. Objects—strange, iconic—appear in my path as if I willed them into existence. I don't seek them out; they reveal themselves to me, almost tauntingly, as I wander more slowly than ever, my mind drifting to thoughts of what might come next - thoughts of the future.

There is something arresting about a shape hidden in plain sight - familiar curves blurred, identity cloaked beneath fabric that clings like memory: a covered car. A steel beast built to move, to roar, to be seen, chooses instead to vanish - or so it seems. Draped in covers, the gesture of hiding becomes its own form of display. Like actors behind curtains or statues awaiting unveiling, silence only intensifies presence. The outline becomes more suggestive than the thing itself. What’s hidden is not absent - it’s amplified. You can almost always even name the make and the model.

A paradox unfolds, an iconic object reveals itself: concealment creates allure, stillness hums with potential, anonymity invites obsession, and some unknown mystery. In trying not to be noticed, the hidden becomes unforgettable, and beautiful. 

They are everywhere,  iconinc in a sense, and most of the time we don’t pay attention to them. We stop, we fill up, we go. But if you slow down and really look, there’s something about them,  just… quiet, ordinary strangeness. The kind that gets under your skin without you noticing. Some of them are barely hanging on. Family-run places with faded signage, others are more surreal—tiny oases glowing in the middle of nowhere, lit up like stage sets, empty except for the buzz of the neon and the distant hum of insects.

They’re supposed to be practical. A stop. A pause. But they end up being more than that. Maybe it’s because cars - again, cars, these strange extensions of ourselves. They need them, like animals that have to return to the river. Maybe it’s because so many things happen there that aren’t about gasoline at all. Arguments, confessions, quick snacks, moments of loneliness. In a sense, they’re the most human part of the road. And that makes them a bit haunting, or beautiful. Sometimes both.

It was a strange time—not dramatic, just slightly out of sync, as if the days moved at a different rhythm and I was always half a step behind. I drifted through unfamiliar places without much urgency, drawn less by destinations than by whatever caught my eye and held it for reasons I didn’t fully understand. Again, there were shapes hidden beneath other shapes, softened by fabric, plastic, weather—outlines that suggested something more than they revealed. They didn’t seem abandoned, exactly, but not cared for either. Waiting, maybe. Or simply there, without needing to explain themselves.

The sky was often heavy, the colors muted in a way that made everything feel more honest, less staged. I started to notice a kind of calm in the stillness, not empty but steady, like something that had accepted its own quiet. I think I stayed close to that—not to figure it out, but just to walk beside it for a while.

Imperfect shots, often out of focus or caught in backlight, form a quiet resistance to the polished aesthetic of control. The accidental becomes intentional — a visual language shaped by instinct, interruption, and the unpredictability of light. A collection of iconic objects emerges, gathered not through deliberate pursuit but through slow movement and aimless wandering, whether along city streets or through the silence of the countryside. Familiar forms appear again and again, not as repetition but as ritual — fragments of a personal archaeology, elevated by their persistence. The result is a sequence of visions marked less by calm observation than by a subtle, underlying obsession — a compulsion to look, to hold, to preserve.