An In-Depth Look at My Book-Making Process

Photography, to me, isn’t just about capturing images—it’s about preserving experiences and memories in a way that transcends the fleeting digital realm. Over the past two decades, my work has evolved from a young photographer’s spontaneous captures into a deliberate practice where both individual photographs and books form a kind of archive: a way to negotiate with time. This is a look at how I move from the urge to shoot, through reflection in editing, to the careful sequencing that turns raw material into a cohesive whole.

There comes a time when the need to preserve an experience becomes too urgent to ignore. I make books to “save” a series of experiences; these projects are physical objects through which I can scream “I existed, I lived this, and I tried to save it.”

My journey into photo book-making began with a portfolio I decided to assemble in order to present my broader work to my graduation jury back in 2009. Then it evolved towards travel books—one chronicling my trips to Japan (2010–2013, published in 2013) and another about Iceland (a trip from 2011 turned into a book in 2017). Later, personal milestones such as the birth of my children inspired intimate, private volumes. Each book reflects an existential urge—a way to wrest permanence from the unstoppable rush of time.

Capturing images :

I’ve always valued serendipity and spontaneity in the shooting process. I don’t like to plan overly in advance; for a long time, I believed that photography should be about losing yourself in the moment. However, over the years, my process has evolved. I find that while I still thrive on the unpredictability of unprepared shoots, having a loose plan for a project helps guide my choices and adds an extra layer of intentionality without stifling spontaneity. It’s a delicate balance between immersion and preparation that has slowly redefined how I approach taking images. This evolution in my process has allowed me to retain the magic of serendipity while also ensuring that I gather the visual material I need to build a compelling narrative later on.

This being said, when I’m out shooting, I invariably enter a personal, alternate universe and even if an underlying project exists in the back of my mind, the act of taking the picture remains a spontaneous gesture.

My background as a videographer and video editor has played a significant role in both the spontaneous and the more prepared aspects of my image-taking. My courses and later professional work in videography have not only refined the way I frame my shots, making each composition tighter and more intentional while at the same time strengthening this impression of being in a movie while looking at reality with a mental filter, but it has also deeply informed the way I construct books. Every frame is considered both as a standalone image and as a piece of a larger, moving story.

The Editing Process:

Editing is a quieter, more internal part of the process, a quiet moment of introspection where I retrieve the mood from the original experience. It’s akin to returning to a familiar cabin after a long journey, sitting by the fire with a cup of coffee, and letting the day’s memories slowly resurface.

At this stage, I work on refining the images to capture the essence of the moment. This isn’t about ruthless culling — strong images tend to declare themselves — it’s more about tuning them until the atmosphere of that day, that light, that feeling, comes through unforced. The mood I aim for in the final image isn’t necessarily a literal one; it’s shaped by how I experienced that moment through my own internal lens. When I shoot, it often feels as though a filter has settled over reality, turning the ordinary into something slightly removed, painterly, or dreamlike.

My editing seeks to recapture that altered perception — not as it was, but as it felt. Years ago, this impulse led me toward images that crossed into digital art, reshaping reality altogether. With time and a quieter kind of confidence, that interpretation has softened, but the instinct remains the same.

Crafting the Book: Sequencing and Visual Rhythm

The next phase is where I edit the book itself—a stage distinct from image editing. Here, I’m not simply placing images in chronological order. Instead, I construct a narrative that relies on deliberate sequencing and visual rhythm. I assemble double-page spreads and group images that share a similar vibe in terms of tone, composition, and contrast, slowly building up a conversation in pacing: tension, release, rhythm.

Dialog within spreads can be graphic, thematic, symbolic, in consonance or in opposition, or several (all) of these at once.

In this stage, every visual element matters. I pay close attention to how basic elements—such as the alignment of horizons—carry across pages. If the horizon isn’t level from one page to the next, it creates a jarring disconnection, much like a glaring continuity error in cinema.

The interplay of color and contrast is equally crucial; sometimes I place images with similar hues together, while other times I use intentional juxtaposition to create a purposeful visual tension. For example, a shift from full-color images to a brief black-and-white section is an effective way to signal a change in mood. This being said, I tend to use black-and-white images in a dramatic, classic documentary style and keep those sections brief, as the absence of color can become dull if overused.

Lengthy photo books naturally feature some images that are less impactful than others—and that’s acceptable. Weaker images serve as necessary pauses, allowing the viewer’s eye to rest and making the subsequent strong images even more compelling. This ebb and flow of intensity is integral to the narrative: it’s much like a well-crafted film that knows when to accelerate and when to let the audience catch its breath.

Aligning horizontal lines can greatly enhance spreads. in this case these two unrelated locations seem to be one and the same

A key element in my sequencing is my use of digital spaces to test out different arrangements. I maintain an old Tumblr blog as a drafting board for small series and regularly share works in progress on a photography Discord server where I discuss ideas with fellow photographers. In these environments, I experiment with double-page associations and test successions of 4–6–8 images to see how they interact together.

However, I’ve found that what works well on a digital screen doesn’t always translate to the physical realm. The physical book is its own medium, with tactile nuances and viewing constraints—like the center pages being less visible in book form—which force me to re-evaluate compositions even if they perform perfectly online.

I design each “chapter” of a book to be immersive yet cohesive. Some sections might consist of just three double-page spreads to maintain a certain tension, while others might stretch over five or six spreads when a slower, more contemplative pace feels right. Lately, I’ve noticed myself gravitating toward uniform layouts, though this is always dependent on the project’s nature. Using a single layout, or a very limited set, can either enhance the reading experience by creating a deliberate rhythm or risk dulling it through predictability. For Tokyo Beckoning, I deliberately chose the same layout for every page—black backgrounds that suggest letterbox bars, reinforcing a cinematic tone. When I’m working with white-page designs, I tend to introduce more variation in the layouts because the contrast and pacing shifts feel more pronounced. In the end, none of these choices are bound by strict rules. It’s about maintaining a continuous, responsive dialogue between the images—how they converse across double-spreads, how they carry the sequence forward, and how I want the narrative to breathe as a whole.

I also have taken the habit or inserting some of these image-combinations into my private books. My worthwhile efforts then find their place next to my family pictures, giving them context and a deeper meaning. I see this as a bit of a pre-hashing of the work that's required for a project meant to be released publicly. Some associations will have then become obvious. However, not all images that end up in private books find their place in public ones and vice versa.

In the past I would also map out ideas by spreading hundreds of credit-card sized prints on the ground and reordering the photographs instinctively, throwing these ideas at a metaphorical wall trying to see what would stick. I don't do this anymore as I've become comfortable with a fully-digital process, but this can be an invaluable way of going about constructing a book both in the perspective of the double page and in the scope of the whole narration.

Images can speak to each other, in a sort of Kuleshov effect. The policeman seems to keep a watchful eye on the woman.

An important aspect of book-making that I want to stress is that the time actually spent editing one should not be underestimated. Time is necessary to digest information, confirm choices and being able to continuously reassess what is being constructed. I always find myself coming and going from it, working in waves of varying lengths and intensity. Sometimes I linger on small sections, fine-tuning them like a composer perfecting a passage, while I leave other pages blank with only a vague idea of what will go there, completely open to reshuffling as the process evolves.

To give you a broad idea; for larger books — those over 200 pages — it can take me up to a year, with countless evenings spent refining the flow, adjusting pacing, and experimenting with sequencing. Even with shorter books of around 100 pages, I still very easily spend months working on it before ordering a proof copy. This is the invisible labor behind the final product, the patience and detail that can’t be rushed. Taking one’s time is an essential part of the process, and it’s something that should never be overlooked.

Balancing Instinct and Deliberate Craft

This whole process—shooting, editing, sequencing—is a long negotiation between instinct and precision. Out in the field, I give myself to instinct. In editing, I recover the emotional landscape of what was shot. In sequencing, I step back even further, reshaping those fragments into a deliberate narrative.

My background in video sharpened this habit of thinking in sequences, of using framing and pacing as tools. Choices like aligning horizons, or deciding when to mute color, have become instinctual over years of practice, much like the basic movements of any martial art, practiced and repeated until they stop being conscious decisions and become instincts of their own. This unfortunately makes the transmission of such fine skills extremely difficult, as beginners tend to fixate on the surface gestures — clinging to things like the rule of thirds for dear life — while missing the instinctual mechanism beneath, the quiet engine that actually shapes the work.

Closing with an Invitation:

Making photo books isn’t a creative obligation for anybody, yet it is a classic and noble final form for any body of work. To me, and my high-strung thirst for existence, making books is a way of making an argument against disappearance, through objects that will hopefully outlast me. My own preoccupations aside, if you ever embark on such a journey yourself, you might simply find that the act of arranging images into a fixed order, printed on a finite number of pages, is a kind of resistance against the endless, formless sprawl of digital imagery.