I use the word "muse" deliberately,
even after careful consideration.
Because from today's perspective, it no longer sounds entirely contemporary, perhaps even a little outdated.

I like this word because it sounds beautiful. Because, once spoken, it hangs in the air. And because it carries with it something older than our current notions of inspiration, productivity, or output. A word that isn't used efficiently, but with care. I think I also like it precisely because it's old-fashioned. There's no other word that describes so accurately what I mean here.

The term has been romanticized, exaggerated, and misunderstood over the centuries. Too often it has become a projection screen for interpretations, as if one were speaking of something mystical for which there was never any evidence. Like the sirens, or the images some people have in their minds when they hear the word "harem.".

And yet there are people with whom something develops over the years that is difficult to describe in any other way.

In the spring of 2018, I stumbled upon Perrine's Instagram profile. I was still quite new to portrait photography. A few shoots here and there, one or two workshops, lots of curiosity, little experience. Looking back, much of it was amateurish. There were encounters, there were pictures – but hardly any that really stood out. I sort of sifted through it all. Like someone learning a musical instrument, playing their way through their favorite songs piece by piece.

At the time, Perrine only had a few posts online, all taken with her iPhone. Maybe one actual photoshoot. Nothing more. I contacted her, and we arranged to meet.

There are those rare moments when you meet for the first time and immediately sense: nothing stands between us. No facade, no cautious probing. Not even a small wall. Perhaps because of a shared cultural background. Perhaps simply because it felt right. A natural, self-evident "we" that needed no explanation.

We started shooting. Outfit after outfit, set after set. And suddenly there was this feeling of having a rough diamond in front of us. Not in the sense of perfection, but of potential. I quickly understood that she was just as far along her journey as I was on mine. Perhaps back then she wasn't thinking as much in terms of long timelines, less about a future as a model. Perhaps this journey wasn't as important to her as it was to me. But in that moment, we were both electrified. And above all, we felt no pressure. Just this feeling of creative energy.

We stood side by side, repeatedly glancing together at my camera's display. And we were genuinely as excited as teenagers about what was being created.

That day, I first sensed the influence a certain kind of connection can have on images. And over the years, something like a watermark became increasingly evident in our collaborative work. A fingerprint. Something no one else could create in the same way. Not because the images were more elaborate or better, but because of the way we worked together. How uncompromisingly Perrine immersed herself in ideas, made them her own, I added my part—and we both contributed to something shared.

People change. And with them, the images change. Ours have been light and heavy over the years. Sometimes melancholy, sometimes euphoria. And sometimes there was simply this being in the moment. Without direction. Without intention. Without expectations of the other person.

Perhaps a muse doesn't bring about the creation of something entirely new, but rather ensures that something isn't lost. The moment this thought occurs to me, I'm already struggling to grasp how to express it precisely. But that's exactly what working with Perrine is like: being able to return to a place where you can stand, even if you've swum too far out. I believe that's what she did when I needed her.

We lived parallel lives, photographically speaking. She modeled, I took photographs. We met up again from time to time, whenever we felt we needed each other. I probably needed her more often than she needed me.

When I stood before a wall, she helped me get through it. When I got lost or lost my way, I met her at a crossroads. Together we went back to a safe starting point – and from there onto a path with a clear direction.

To say she inspired me all these years would be too simplistic. She complemented me. Wherever I lacked something to complete an idea or take the next step, she stepped in.

Perhaps this is closer to what Rainer Maria Rilke meant when he wrote that art needs time – and people who stay while you don't yet know what you're actually looking for. And closer to the idea Patti Smith once formulated: not mutual inspiration, but mutual enabling.

Over the years, other people came into our lives. Honest, close, loving friendships that are inspiring and productive. But this one connection has remained. Even when we don't see each other for almost a year. Even now, when our last photoshoot was so long ago.

And that's precisely why it's stronger than ever.

Fragments of Light Nº 13: Perrine

Fragments of Light No. 14: Ten Years Later - A Conversation about Photography, Time, and Knowledge

Method Notes No. 9: Before it was called “analog”