Scratching the Surface: A Visual Process

Note from the editor: Bastien’s images and written portion differ stylistically and technically from most articles I’ve published on this blog so far. However, I thought his introspection and images, reminiscent of essays illustrated with Holgas and Agfa Clacks, give a compelling insight into the mind of a musician treating visual art as textures (more so than the content). — Dmitri.

I shoot most of my images digitally (Canon EOS 5D), but I treat them as though they were tactile materials. My musical background in electroacoustic composition taught me to think in layers, to embrace noise, imperfection, and fragmentation. I apply that same approach to my photography — working with images as I would with sound, shaping them until they carry a physical presence.

I am drawn to spaces and details that resist the obvious — places where things have aged, eroded, or simply fallen out of notice. Parallel to my photographic work, I make it a habit to collect visual fragments in the form of textures whenever I’m outside with my Canon EOS 5D. This “texture library” is often gathered in the same locations where the original images are shot.

It might be a cracked wall catching afternoon light, the peeling surface of a rusted door, torn street posters curling at the edges, or the vein of a wooden plank weathered by time. These details are as important to me as the photographs themselves. They carry their own presence, and when combined with an image, they allow me to push the photograph beyond straightforward depiction.

Once in the studio, I open both the photograph and selected textures in Photoshop. I begin by experimenting with these textures as layered elements, adjusting their transparency until they blend seamlessly — or sometimes intentionally imperfectly — with the underlying image. At this stage, I am not trying to hide the texture, but to integrate it so that it becomes part of the image’s texture.

From there, I edit. I remove what feels unnecessary, working intuitively to balance the image. This is a subtractive process with the goal of revealing the right level of tension between the original photograph and its layered surfaces.

Depth is built selectively. I may blur certain areas to create a sense of distance or guide the viewer’s gaze across the frame. Other areas I keep sharp and almost abrasive, so that they catch the eye unexpectedly. The rhythm of the image comes from these shifts in focus and texture — a kind of visual breathing.

The final image is never intended to look “polished” or “perfect.” Instead, I want it to feel tactile — as if the surface could be touched — and to carry a certain ambiguity, where the subject is less important than the sensation it leaves behind. In the end, my aim is for the image to inhabit a space between the visible and the abstract, where perception slows down, and where the viewer is encouraged to linger in the textures, the fractures, and the silences that remain.

Rather than capturing reality, I aim to disrupt it. What interests me is not the subject itself, but the residue it leaves behind once the image begins to unravel.

My process is intuitive. I rarely plan a shot in advance. I walk, I observe, I respond. Later, during editing, I work more like a sculptor — scraping away, layering, accentuating flaws. Dust, scratches, digital noise — these are not mistakes to correct, but elements to be composed with. They carry a tactile quality I value, like skin or stone.

There’s also a strong parallel with my work in electroacoustic music: in both cases, I start with raw material — fragments, accidents, distortions — and build from there. I’m drawn to what’s cracked or broken, to what lingers beneath the surface. In sound as in image, I try to shape experiences that are slow, ambiguous, and immersive.