I've always been fascinated by mushrooms, and fly agarics in particular.
Maybe it's because they seem to belong to two worlds at once. They emerge from the forest floor like ordinary living things, yet they feel almost mythical. They appear suddenly, disappear quickly, and leave behind more questions than answers. When I photograph them, I'm rarely interested in their famous red caps. In black and white, color disappears and something else becomes visible. Texture. Shape. Light. Presence.
A mushroom is never just a mushroom. It becomes a symbol. A marker of time. A reminder that nature is constantly creating and reclaiming itself.
I often draw mushrooms, photograph mushrooms, and return to them again and again because they remain mysterious to me. Forests are full of things we don't completely understand, and mushrooms seem to embody that mystery better than almost anything else.
In this series, the crushed fly agarics are not about destruction. They are about passing through. About change. About the traces we leave behind without meaning to.
Black-and-white photography strips away distraction and leaves only the essentials: light, shadow, form, and emotion.
Perhaps that's why mushrooms belong so naturally in photographs. They ask us to slow down, look closer, and accept that not everything needs to be explained.
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