Issue #3

Jaguar Field Notes
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Hola, Reader, how’s everything going?
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A candle is lit beside me, incense is slowly filling the room, and I’m listening to Totó la Momposina. Honoring her and the incredible legacy of music and culture she left behind. La Verdolaga​
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Slowing down

In the mountains, it’s easy to slow down. No one needs to rush, and every step is intentional. Because if you move too fast, you might fall. But in cities, moving at high speed often feels like proof that we’re doing things right.

"The art of doing nothing"

For someone like me. Constantly needing to do something, to work, to create, to research, it can be incredibly difficult to simply sit and observe. It almost feels like a heroic practice.

Before leaving Nepal and closing that chapter there, I went out to give myself a moment with no expectations. No plans, no overthinking. Just the willingness to receive whatever the day had to offer.

And it was in that space that something completely unexpected began...

Something extra: This photo was taken by my dear friend and artist
​Vincent Moon on a day when we decided to let ourselves be surprised. No plans, no agenda, just the openness of not having anything to do, and the simple act of going out to visit the trees. Beauty is everywhere, we just need to slow down enough to truly see it.

Back to the story!

It all started on an Open Mic night…

Twenty-four hours before leaving Pokhara… I met Arno.

But let me tell this properly.

That night, I had gone out to sing at an open mic. Just one of those last nights in a place you already know you’re about to leave. And something about that energy… it changes everything. There’s no space for hesitation anymore. Only for curiosity. For adventure.
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The kind of night where you just say yes.

And that’s where I met him.

Arno and I ended up on stage together, playing percussion side by side. I remember listening to him play and thinking: who is this person? There was something magnetic about him. So when the music paused, I didn’t think twice. I asked.

What’s beautiful about being in places you’re about to leave, surrounded by musicians and strangers who feel like stories waiting to happen, is that nothing feels too serious anymore. Everything feels possible.

Arno, another traveler like me, wandering through distant lands, told me about his jewelry project. He had been in Nepal for months already, building a collection.

And I couldn’t believe it.

Because I had been there for months too… and somehow, we had never crossed paths.

I told him it was a shame we hadn’t met earlier. I would have loved to photograph his work.

He laughed. He said he felt the same.

And the night kept unfolding: more music, more dancing, more of that strange feeling that the world is much smaller than we think. And every time we spoke, we kept saying the same thing:

What a pity we didn’t meet sooner...

After repeating that a few times, it became obvious there was only one reasonable solution:

Why don’t we just do it?

Twelve hours before leaving Nepal, a shooting was born. On a night that started with a song, and ended with a plan neither of us had expected…

These are the photos from that shoot no one saw coming

Arno looked at me and said,
​“I have two friends. Rings. A few clothes. A location in mind. And a motorbike.”

A
H O R S E

In the distance, a horse quietly accompanied us as we worked on creating images. At some point, we wondered if it would let us come closer.

We approached with respect… and a kind of quiet admiration.

And to our surprise, we were welcomed in.

We shared a few fleeting moments together. Just us, the animal, the reflection, and the mountains holding everything in place. Photographs were made, but more than that, something was simply experienced.

There was a quiet beauty to that shoot. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention, but stays with you long after.

Looking back now, it wasn’t about one single moment, but about everything that had to align for it to exist at all.

An idea. A location. The right light. The right people. And a shared willingness to trust the unknown.

The simplest images are often the hardest to create. Not because they require more, but because they depend on something you cannot control: timing.

As a documentary photographer, I’ve come to learn that the most meaningful photographs rarely arrive on schedule. They happen when life is allowed to unfold naturally. No script. No control. Just presence.

And for a brief moment… everything reflected back perfectly.

Thank you, Arno, Rui, and Andy.

Thank you for trusting me, for saying yes to an idea that barely existed twelve hours before it became real, and for helping me create something so special.

More than a photoshoot, it felt like the perfect farewell to a place that had become home.

Since coming back, I’ve been trying to cultivate what I can only call “the spirit of surprise.”

To create with intention, but also with openness. As if we had an antenna, quietly receiving something larger than ourselves. And when we stay open, in both mind and heart, that creative energy expands through us… and we’re able to offer it back to the world.

These words are not mine, but those of the very wise Rick Rubin, whom I’ll be referencing more often from now on. I highly recommend listening to his interviews.

I invite you to take a walk and listen to this little treasure. I hope it helps you as much as it has helped me find my rhythm again.
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Rick Rubin ON: Why Unconvent... Jun 5 · On Purpose with Jay Shet... 100:42   ​