Quiet Favorites - My personal picks
People often ask me, “What’s your best photo?” or “Which image means the most to you?” And the truth is—I don’t have a single answer.
But there is a small (and slowly growing) group of images that hold something personal for me. They aren’t necessarily my most technical, or even the most composed. They aren’t here because they’re perfect. They’re here because something stayed with me—in the making, in the moment, or in what unfolded just before or after the shutter clicked.
These are images I return to. Not for what they show, but for what they remind me of. Each one is paired with a short note—a fragment of story, a feeling, a trace of something that made it matter.
The start of something beautiful
September 2013
She was just passing through—couchsurfing her way across Belgium, part-time freelance, no fixed plan. We talked. She ended up in my studio. Came back the next day. And the day after that. ‘till the point where she never really went away.
We got married.
Maybe I can do this
December 2019
It had been a hard stretch—depression and PTSD had left me feeling distant, especially around people I didn’t know. The idea of reaching out again, of showing up, felt overwhelming.
My wife—then my girlfriend—gently kept nudging me forward. She helped me set up profiles, encouraged me to connect, to put myself back into the space where photography lives.
Sofie was one of the first to respond. This image came from that shoot. I remember feeling proud—not just of the photo, but of the fact that I’d made it happen.
For the first time in a long time, I believed: maybe I can do this.
“En da’k geen klachten hoor, hé. Dag Bompa.”
Somewhere between lockdowns - June 2020
I had the best grandfather I could’ve hoped for. He was always there—genuinely funny in a slapstick kind of way, endlessly creative, and always curious about what I was making. He taught me a lot about photography. For years, he was the first to see my pictures. We always said goodbye the same way: “En da’k geen klachten hoor.” And I don’t want to hear any complaints.
I took this photo during my last visit to his home. Dementia had started to take hold, and most of that afternoon, he seemed far away. But when I lifted the camera, something shifted. His eyes lit up. He recognized me. He spoke with warmth and clarity, just for a moment. In my memory, this was the last time he was really there.
Morning, son.
September 2022
One of the happiest pictures I’ve ever made.
It’s just a hospital room. A window, a chair, soft light against the wall. But everything had shifted. Our whole world was in that room.
It was the morning after our son was born. He had just seen his first sunrise. And we had just become something new.
Friendly bravery
Shooting with friends is something else entirely. The trust is already there—not built during the shoot, but carried in with us. It opens up space for honesty, for vulnerability, for laughter that softens the edges. We talk more deeply about how someone wants to be seen. There’s more room to pause. To try. To let go.
Sometimes these shoots are carefully planned. Sometimes they happen on a whim—or even after a bet. But always, they’re grounded in something real. Many of my favorite series were born in these spaces—through open, playful experimentation with friends who gave more than they had to.
There’s a special kind of bravery in showing the most vulnerable version of yourself to someone you already know. And it takes even more to say, yes, you can share this—to let others see me, too.
Thank you, Anna, Aleata, Maya—and to all of you who aren’t named here but who trusted me with something quiet and true.
This collection may grow, shift, or change—just like I do.