To look at someone is, in itself, an intrusion. A sustained gaze can quietly strip away the distance we instinctively maintain from one another. We carry invisible boundaries—personal, spatial—and feel unsettled when they are crossed.

As a photographer, I have always worked within this fragile distance. I move close—often closer than what is considered comfortable. At times, people turn away. At certain moments, they acknowledge me, and in that acknowledgment lies a subtle permission. It is this approval that allows me to remain, to observe, and occasionally, to enter spaces that are not mine. Over time, I have come to value the act of approaching more than the image it produces. The photograph is only a trace. What stays with me is the negotiation—the hesitation, the acceptance, and the quiet refusal.

This brings me to an enduring question: where does observation end and voyeurism begin? And is a camera necessary for either? We look at strangers every day—on streets, in trains, across rooms—the camera merely formalizes that act.

Ferry Tales emerges from this inquiry. The work does not rely on concealment or distance. These photographs are made in full view, within the awareness of those being photographed. If there is intrusion, it is not hidden—it is shared.

What unfolds is less documentation and more a quiet exchange—a test of boundaries, a study of how individuals respond when their private space is gently pressed, but not broken. I move close enough to register the tension between these invisible borders—close enough to feel it, but not rupture it.