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This series is an ode to the nineties - seen through pink glasses. Kids lingering on a basketball court, echoing memories from my own childhood. A time when life felt simpler. We all wore the same things—loose jeans, oversized sweaters—chosen less for style than for freedom, less for fashion but for function. We played from dusk until the sky gave way to stars, unbothered by cameras or algorithms.

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As a millennial, connection meant landlines and doorbells. To find my friends, I had to call their homes or knock and ask, “Can they come out?” We lived outside. In sun, in rain — until our legs ached and our cheeks stung with weather. And somehow, we thrived.

In my photography, I return to those textures — to the innocence of that time, but also to its blindness. I explore the tension between a future that feels increasingly shadowed, and a past that felt safer, softer — even if, perhaps, it never really was.

There was something beautiful in our invisibility. Back then, we weren’t observed or curated. We simply were.

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Maybe it’s nostalgia playing tricks on me—maybe the ‘90s weren’t our peak as a species. But sometimes, in the quiet of memory, it feels like we were closest to something real. Something human.