Many of my thoughts are born in the chaotic territory of doubt. From there, they drift toward quieter, more private territories. Only occasionally does that initial disorder crystallise—when an obsession takes hold, when a scattered thought finds its form and becomes a reason to tell a story. In those moments of unexpected clarity, I feel profoundly fortunate.

The path is rarely linear. It curves, slips, resists. Yet following it often leads to ideas that are broader, more generous, more open—ideas that still carry, at their core, a trace of silence.

The Thinker moves from chaos toward order. It begins as a patchwork and resolves into melancholy—the sadness that accompanies every ending, even those shaped by pleasure.

The title comes from The Thinker (1986) by Jeff Wall, a work that reimagines Rodin’s iconic figure for the present day. Here, the thinker is no heroic philosopher, but an aging labourer, seated on an improvised block, worn boots on his feet, a sword embedded in his back. Wall described it as an imaginary monument to disenchantment and failure. Suspended between theatre and reality, the image echoes the quiet struggle at the heart of this collection: thought emerging from pain and uncertainty, remaining upright despite the weight of disillusionment.

The Thinker is a dedication—to those who refuse comfort, to those who push me toward less familiar ground. To creators who, from the illogical, from the marginal, even from madness, have insisted on imagining something else.

They are the ones who search for truth beyond official narratives. Who find shelter in the exhilaration of free thought and in the solitude of individuality. From there, they draw the strength to grow—and to create work capable of awakening unique, unforgettable emotions.