Hey guys, I am more the happy and proud to present our latest model, Igna.

Igna is from Montevideo, Uruguay and he is a well known clothing designer, just to give you a back story and weirdly enough as I’m writing this article, we met 4 years ago in this same spot and we wanted to collaborate on some other projects together, we had a longggg back and forth about his clothing line because he needed a photographer. Long story short, we never got to work together.

Now, 4 years have passed and we find ourselves in a different situation, I feel like i’ve evolved so much as a photographer, I took classes and bought better lenses and cameras (very scary move) but much needed one and after I was ready to get back to work with my new gear, Igna appeared.

This time wanted to participate in The Naked Project, he said he needed some inspiration and has been looking to make positive changes and take more risks and this is something that he had always wanted to do but never dared to and WOW! I feel like we crossed paths in an amazing way, my new photography equipment, my new knowledge and his amazing energy were just INCREDIBLE.

The place we selected for this photoshoot was beyond epic, the lights, the shadows, the sun and how we had to move and improvise depending on the weather and we were feeling.

I’m learning to let go but like LET GO for real and for this photoshoot I wanted him to explore himself in this new experience that he always wanted to live, I wanted him to enjoy himself and do as he pleased and that’s exactly what happened.

We had so much fun letting go, soooo damn liberating.

So please keep enjoy these amazing photos we did together because for me, they were magic.

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I’ll admit it plainly: getting this close still gives me a rush, every single time. Most people look at a body the way they look at a room they’ve already memorized, quickly, from a distance, taking in the general shape and moving on.

I can’t do that anymore.

I’ve trained myself to do the opposite, to stop pulling back and start pushing in, closer than feels reasonable, until a shoulder isn’t a shoulder, it’s a ridge of light and a fold of shadow that makes my hands a little unsteady on the camera.

This is the part of the work I get genuinely excited about, more than anything else I shoot. Not the full figure, composed and posed and legible at a glance, but the close-up, the place where a man’s body stops being someone you’d recognize on the street and becomes pure form, pure charge. Skin under harsh sun. The particular way a collarbone catches light differently than the muscle beneath it. The small imperfections, a scar, a tattoo, an uneven tan line, the slight asymmetry every real body has, that a wider shot would smooth over politely, and that up close I go looking for on purpose, because it starts being thrilling.

I think that’s the appeal of shooting this way. Distance is flattering. Distance lets a body perform for the camera, hold its best angle, control the story.

Get close enough, though, and control starts to slip. You can’t really pose skin texture. You can’t manage the way sweat catches light on a stomach or the exact geography of hair growing across a chest. Up close, the body stops being edited and starts being just true.

There’s something almost architectural about it, if I let myself think that way. Ribs as structure. The soft geometry where a leg bends. Light behaving like it would on stone or wood…… falling, pooling. I’ve had people tell me that when they see themselves photographed this closely for the first time, it’s disorienting, almost like meeting a stranger. That’s not a failure of the photograph. That’s the whole point. We rarely get to see ourselves the way a camera two inches away sees us. Most of us go our whole lives avoiding exactly that kind of looking.

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Usually I’m the one asking the questions. I’m the one setting up the lights, telling someone to relax their shoulders, waiting for the moment they stop performing and just exist in front of me. So it was strange, and honestly a little disarming, to sit on the other side of that dynamic for once.

A few weeks ago I did a video call with Jonny McD, who writes The Midlife Edit from Northern Ireland. He’d found The Naked Project on Substack, reached out, and asked if I’d talk with him about the work, not just the photography itself, but what it actually means to build something like this: seven years of asking men to take their clothes off in front of a camera, and everything that happens in the room once they do.

I said yes without thinking too hard about it, which is usually how the best things in my life have started.

What I didn’t expect was how much the conversation would turn into something bigger than the project itself. We talked about where The Naked Project came from, a low point, a notebook, a cheap camera bought almost on impulse during a trip to Chile. We talked about the six strangers who showed up at my house before I even knew how to properly use the camera. We talked about vulnerability, about the emotional weight gay men carry and rarely put down, about the difference between being naked and actually being seen. Somewhere in the middle of it, the conversation stopped feeling like an interview and started feeling like exactly the kind of exchange the project itself is supposed to create.

I’ve had my work shown in museums and festivals across a few continents now, and each of those has meant something. But there’s a particular kind of gratitude that comes from someone finding the work quietly, on their own, from thousands of miles away, and taking it seriously enough to ask good questions about it. Jonny did that.

So: thank you, Jonny. For the openness, for the humor, for treating the conversation like it mattered rather than like content to be filled in around a byline. If you haven’t read the interview yet, it’s live on his Substack, The Midlife Edit…… go find it. And if any of this resonates, know that the invitation is the same one that started this whole project seven years ago: whatever you’re circling around, whatever version of “taking your clothes off” applies to your own life right now the only way through it is to actually do it.

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There’s a kind of trust that doesn’t show up in a single portrait. You need two people for it. You need the gap between them to close, even just a little, and you need a camera patient enough to notice when it does.

I didn’t understand this until I started photographing people together instead of alone.

A solo portrait is a negotiation between one person and the lens. But put two people in the frame, and let their guard down around each other, even briefly, even for the first time, and something else appears. You stop photographing bodies. You start photographing the distance between them, or the lack of it.

What still surprises me, every time, is how often the two people in front of my camera didn’t know each other an hour earlier. COMPLETE STRANGERS. They shake hands at the door, make a little small talk while I set up lights, and then I ask them to stand close, to touch, to exist in each other’s space as if they’d done it a hundred times before. And somehow, more often than not, they do.

I used to think that was strange. Now I think it might be the whole point. Two strangers don’t have old habits to fall back on, no history to perform. Whatever closeness happens between them in that room has to be built fresh, in real time, out of nothing but a willingness to be near someone. A hand resting on a shoulder that, an hour ago, belonged to someone they’d never met. A forehead dropped against a stranger’s collarbone because it suddenly, unexpectedly, felt comfortable. The best frames I get are almost always the ones where I can tell the two of them forgot I was in the room, where the fact that they’d just met falls away entirely, and what’s left is just two people who, for this one afternoon, decided to let each other in.

I think that’s the real subject of this kind of work, more than fashion or art or technique. Closeness. Not the romantic kind necessarily though sometimes that too but the plainer, more durable kind. The kind where someone lets you lean your full weight on them without flinching. Where being looked at, closely and for a long time, doesn’t feel like exposure, it feels like relief.

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I didn’t set out to build a community. I set out to take pictures.

For a long time, my work was about light and shadow, about the way a body could hold a room the same way a mountain holds a valley, quietly, without asking permission. I liked the technical problems: how skin reads differently in low light than in high contrast, how a single shaft of window light can turn an ordinary Tuesday afternoon into something that feels like a held breath. I told myself the nudity in my photographs was incidental. A formal choice. Nothing more.

It took me longer than I’d like to admit to realize I was lying to myself about that.

The people who started showing up to sit for me weren’t just subjects. They were looking for something, the same way I was, even if neither of us said it out loud in the beginning. Someone would message me, nervous, half-joking, saying they’d always wanted to try this but never had the nerve. Someone else would show up having driven three hours, because there wasn’t anyone doing this kind of work where they lived. Over and over, I heard some version of the same sentence: I didn’t know there was a place for this.

I started to understand that the camera wasn’t really the point. It was the excuse. It gave people permission to do something that’s surprisingly hard to do alone. My studio became less like a set and more like a waiting room for something people had been carrying around for years……

The wish to be seen exactly as they are and have that be enough.

I remember the specific afternoon it clicked for me. I was setting up lights, doing the usual small talk to put someone at ease, and they said something like, “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for a group of people who’d just, let me be like this.” Not sexual, not performative. Just unguarded. And I realized I’d been looking for the same thing, from the other side of the lens. I wanted a community where the body wasn’t a problem to be managed or a thing to be hidden, where it could just be material, like fabric or stone, worthy of attention without being loaded down with shame.

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So i am currently studying more and more and stepping out of my confort zone, reinventing myself as a photographer and adding more layers to my work (which I love) this time I currently worked with two models and added some other elements that i wouldnt normally use but i decided to give it a twist (don’t wanna give any spoilers yet) but honestly I feel…

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I just got back from São Paulo, and honestly, I’m still buzzing a little bit. I was invited to be a part of the Vortice Art Festival, and to say I was excited beforehand would be a massive understatement. It’s one thing to get your work out there, but getting the nod from a festival like that in a city as massive and alive as São Paulo is a whole different level.

The energy of the city is always intense, but the vibe inside the festival was something else entirely.

For me, the absolute best part wasn’t just showing the work, it was the people. You spend so much time working in your own bubble, doing your own thing, that you forget how good it feels to just sit down and talk shop with people who get it.

I met so many incredible fellow artists. We weren’t even necessarily talking about deep, high-brow art theory the whole time; it was just regular, great conversations about our processes, the struggles of the creative grind, and the excitement of creating something new. Everyone was so welcoming and down-to-earth. It’s rare to find an environment where there’s zero pretense and just a shared passion for making things.

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There is a distinct shift in perspective when your personal space transforms into a canvas. The corners you walk past every day without looking suddenly demand attention; the familiar objects take on a quiet, cinematic weight. This session wasn’t born from a complex production schedule or an intense concept. It began with a simple invitation to slow down, step inside, and strip away the external noise.

We started by playing with a single, aggressive overhead light source. In a dark room, a focused beam of light acts almost like a physical chisel, carving shapes out of the blackness. It creates a duality: the light is hard and direct, but the mood it evokes is deeply soft, intimate, and secluded.

Reclining across the surface of the table, the body becomes a landscape of highlights and deep shadows. The glow from the glass pendant lamp catches the curve of the hip, the line of the thigh, and the texture of the skin, leaving the rest of the room completely swallowed by night. In the second frame, as the silhouette shifts and looks back into the darkness, the composition feels like a renaissance painting caught in a modern apartment. It’s a study in stillness.

As the session moved forward, the energy became lighter, more fluid. We stopped focusing on the geometry of the shadows and began looking closer at the details that anchor a person to a room.

The black-and-white frame breaks the intensity of the darkness. It zooms in on the chest tattoos, delicate, organic leaves flanking the collarbones, resting just above an art book on the table. There’s a beautiful friction between the hard edge of the literature and the soft, breathing form leaning against it.

When we returned to the wide frame under the dual lamps, the posture changed completely. Sitting upright, thighs parted, head tilted into the dark, the mood feels entirely unscripted. It’s the feeling of a conversation that paused just long enough for the shutter to click.

The Threshold of the Night

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There is a specific kind of static that accumulates when you spend too much time trapped in the grid of the city. It’s a quiet, heavy stress, a feeling of being constantly perceived, constantly scheduled, and entirely disconnected from the ground beneath your feet. By the time I packed my camera and headed toward the coast, I wasn’t just looking for a change of scenery; I was looking for an exit ramp from my own head. I needed to reconnect with something instinctual, natural , and unbothered by time.

Then, the unexpected happened. Richard saw that I was in the area and reached out. “Let’s shoot something.” No over-calculated concepts, no mood boards, no rigid expectations. Just an open afternoon, a camera, and the vast, shifting landscape of Playa Chihuahua. What followed was one of those rare, magical sessions where the universe simply decides to cooperate.

The Landscape as an Extension of Self

Playa Chihuahua has a way of stripping away the unnecessary. The geography dictates the mood: the sharp, unyielding lines of weathered logs, the chaotic texture of coastal brush, and the soft, sloping geometry of the dunes meeting an infinite sky.

We started among the brush, where the remnants of massive trees sit like ancient, carved pedestals. In this first shot, there’s an intense, almost embryonic vulnerability. Curled tight against the rings of a cut log, Richard’s form mimics the texture of the wood itself, contracted, protective, yet entirely exposed to the elements. It felt like the perfect visual translation of that initial transition from the tension of the city to the rawness of the wild.

Stripping Away Time

As we moved deeper into the dunes, the concept of time simply ceased to matter. We weren’t chasing the perfect light or rushing to beat a schedule. We were just there to explore, to play, and to be entirely present in the space we occupied.

The black-and-white frames from the ridge capturing this exact shift in energy:

Perched on a sun-bleached, fallen trunk that juts out over the sand like a diving board into nothingness, the body transforms. In the first monochrome frame, he lies perfectly flat, a clean horizontal axis balancing against the rugged, vertical explosion of the old root system below. In the next, the posture shifts, opening up, looking toward the sky, absorbing the space.

By removing color, the images become entirely about form, texture, and contrast. The human spine mirrors the curve of the wood; the skin catches the high, diffused light of the coast. It’s an exercise in surrender.

The Instinct of Being

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As a photographer, you develop a rhythm, a specific visual language you speak with your subjects. But every so often, a stranger walks into the frame and completely disrupts the frequency. This session was a series of surprises….. the first being the man himself, and the second being heterosexual with such an uninhibited openness he brought to the lens.

There was a specific kind of electricity in the room, almost overstimulating sensuality.

Watching a heterosexual model lean so deeply into the vulnerability of masculine touch was transformative.

In these frames, the hand isn’t just a prop; it’s a narrator. It traces the map of a body that has clearly been through a metamorphosis.

“I Love the Person I’ve Become”

Between the clicks of the shutter, he talked. He spoke about the long road to loving his own skin, the essence of the man inhabiting them. There is a quiet power in a man who is no longer at war with his own physique.

“I finally love my body,” he told me, “because I finally love the person I’ve become.”

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There is a specific kind of magic that happens when two artists reconnect after years of sharpening their respective crafts. Working with Sebastian again felt less like a standard photoshoot and more like a high-stakes performance where the camera was simply the only witness.

As a professional pole dancer, Sebastian possesses a physical vocabulary that most of us can’t even translate. His “body game,” as one might call it, isn’t just about the visible strength……..though that is undeniable…….it’s about the way he inhabits the air around him.

To set the stage, Sebastian curated a playlist that transformed the studio. It wasn’t just background noise; it was a sensual, and erotic and soft atmosphere that dictated the rhythm of every frame. As the first track began to swell, the energy shifted. He literally performed. Every movement was a deliberate extension of the music, a physical manifestation of the bass and the melody.

The chemistry we share has always been effortless, but this time, it felt evolved. We’ve both spent the last few years pushing the boundaries of our mediums, and that growth was palpable in the quiet spaces between shots. There was a mutual understanding, a silent dialogue where the lens and the limb met in perfect synchronization.

The visual narrative of this series centers on a captivating paradox: strength versus softness.

• The Strength: In his more athletic transitions, his muscles became a map of discipline. You could see the raw power required to hold a pose that defied gravity, the tension of a body trained to sustain incredible pressure.

• The Softness: Yet, in the same breath, he would melt. An arched back or a trailing hand would turn that marble-like intensity into something exotic and ethereal.

  

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Sometimes the algorithm actually gets it right.

Fortunato found my work on Instagram all the way from Chile. After a few messages back and forth, the vibe was already there, but you never really know until someone is standing in front of you. He took the leap, hopped on a flight to Uruguay, and showed up ready to create.

The second he walked in, I knew. You can’t fake that kind of creative chemistry.

We headed out to the garden, and honestly? The “work” part of the photoshoot lasted about five minutes before it just became a conversation. We started talking, really talking about life, travel, and the weird paths that bring people together.

While we spoke, he just… existed.

He wasn’t “posing” in that stiff, catalog way. He’d lean against a stone wall to make a point, or stretch out in the grass while telling a story from home, and I’d just click the shutter. It was shot after great shot after great shot. When someone is that comfortable in their own skin, you don’t have to direct them. You just have to keep up.

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I didn’t think twice. I just booked the flight.

There’s a specific kind of madness that takes over when you see a face or a frame and realize you have to capture it. So, I found myself back in Buenos Aires, dragging my gear into this massive, echoing apartment, a relic of old-world architecture where the ceilings are too high and the walls are nothing but cold, unapologetic concrete.

Then there was Edson.

The contrast was staggering. You have these sharp, industrial lines, the grey, the grit, the hard geometry of the balcony, and then you have him. Stripped thin, raw, and completely unbothered by the city.

The Alchemy of the Balcony

We moved to the balcony where the sun was hitting like a physical blow. It wasn’t that soft, filtered “studio” light; it was that aggressive, midday Buenos Aires glare that carves shadows into skin.

Standing there, totally nude against the stone, Edson didn’t look like a guy in the middle of a concrete jungle. He looked like he was in the middle of a wide-open field. He threw his head back, eyes closed, letting the heat soak into his pores as if the traffic and the sirens didn’t exist.

The Hard and the Soft

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The heat was a physical thing that day, thick enough to swallow. We’d ditched our clothes hours ago, letting them pile up like discarded skins by the back door. There’s a specific kind of freedom that hits when you’re naked in the dirt with someone, it’s not just about the lack of fabric, it’s about the lack of bullshit.

Ele was moving through the tall grass like he owned the sunlight. I watched the way the sweat pooled in the small of his back, catching the glare until he looked like he was made of bronze. We weren’t doing anything “important,” and that was exactly the point. We were just existing.

We spent the afternoon in this blurred, lazy loop cold water from the pool that made us both shout when it hit our chests, the smell of crushed tomato vines underfoot, and that low, vibrating hum of the cicadas that felt like it was coming from inside our own ribs.

At one point.

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The door hadn’t even clicked shut before the silence between them shattered. It was like a collision. Julian’s hands were everywhere at once, clutching the back of Elias’s neck, pulling him in with a feverish urgency that felt less like an invitation and more like a reclamation.

Elias met him with an equal, jagged force. He gripped Julian’s waist, his fingers bruising against skin as he dragged him closer, trying to eliminate every microscopic gap of air left between them. There was no grace in it, only the frantic, heavy rhythm of two people who had starved for this for too long.

When Julian’s mouth found the hollow of Elias’s throat, Elias let out a sound, a low, broken growl that vibrated through both their chests.

It was a sensory overload: the sharp scent of sweat and salt.

the friction of rough denim against thighs.

the staggering heat radiating off their bodies.

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I didn’t know his real name.

That was part of the deal.

He showed up almost silent, wearing black, carrying that energy some men have when they don’t need to speak much because their body is already saying everything. The harness was the first thing that caught my eye. Not even in a sexual way at first. A code. Straps crossing over skin like architecture. Leather framing muscle. It felt less like styling and more like armor.

Or maybe permission.

There’s something about photographing a man who feels slightly anonymous. Like you’re both in on something. The blinds half closed. The light controlled. The room quiet except for the camera shutter and breathing.

It felt like we weren’t supposed to be doing it.

And that’s exactly why it worked and THEN IT BECAME MORE EROTIC.

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There’s something very different about pointing the camera at your own body.

Just me, the mirror, the shutter, and that quiet buzz in the chest that says pay attention.

These photos came from that place.

I wasn’t trying to look hot. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was curious. Curious about what happens when I stop being the one who looks and become the one who’s looked at, even if it’s by myself.

Holding the camera changes everything.
It becomes part of the body.
An extension of the hand, the arm, the breath.

I could feel every small decision: where to place my weight, how much to reveal, when to pull back. The excitement was about control. About choosing the angle, the cut, the moment where the image stops and leaves something unfinished.

Seeing myself fragmented. A torso without a face. A hand gripping the camera. Hair, skin, tension. Not a full picture, just enough to suggest what’s happening outside the frame.

That’s where it gets intimate.

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It slides over skin slowly, finds its way into curves, lingers where the body is warmest. Light hits first, sharp, intentional, then the shadow follows, thicker, heavier, swallowing everything it doesn’t want to share.

I watch the body react to it.
A shoulder tightening.
A back arching just enough.
Skin catching the light like it knows it’s being looked at.

Black and white turns desire into geometry. Lines. Angles. Tension. A body half-offered, half-withheld. The shadow cuts across hips, hides what you want most, makes you wait. And that waiting, that’s where the heat lives.

I love how nothing here is explained.
Breathing. Shifting. Letting the light touch it where it can’t help but respond.

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This shoot was about stripping things down until there was nowhere to hide.
No props that explain too much. No set pretending to be something else. Just a wooden box, a body, and light doing what light does best when you don’t soften it: cutting.

We played with angles first. How the body sits, leans, stretches, collapses. How a simple cube can become a seat, a support, a threat.. It’s funny how one object can change everything.

The box isn’t decorative, it’s functional. It gives tension. It forces decisions. Knees open or closed. Weight forward or back. Balance or surrender.

Then the light comes in. Hard. Directional. No apologies.

I like light when it’s raw. When it shows everything it touches and refuses to flatter. Here, the light wasn’t meant to caress the body, it was meant to define it. To carve muscle from shadow. To stretch silhouettes across the wall. To create that clean, almost fashion-editorial feeling where every inch feels intentional.

Shadows became part of the composition. Sometimes sharper than the body itself. Sometimes longer, more dramatic, telling a different story than the skin. At moments, the shadow felt like another presence in the room…… quiet, watching, unavoidable.

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