What if every surface is a question? What if the city we walk through is only the first of several cities occupying the same space?
For twenty years I have photographed reflective surfaces — glass facades, puddles, polished metal, water — not as visual effects but as openings. Each reflection is a "what if" made visible: another version of the street, another arrangement of strangers, another light. The condition collapses for an instant, and the camera catches the seam.
These images were made in London, Paris, Tel Aviv, Seville — but the place matters less than the moment. A pigeon crosses a shaft of darkness. A red bus appears inside a window where it could not physically be. A woman walks through her own ghost. The frame holds two cities at once; the viewer must choose which is the real one and discover that the question has no answer.
I work without staging or post-production. The doubling is already there, waiting at the edge of light. Photography is the act of admitting that the world is more layered than we agreed to see.
What if the second layer is the one that was always there?