After returning from Japan for an exhibition and talks in Basel, life redirected me. A message from Leina asked me to come care for the children in her absence, and two days later I was on a plane to Bali. The joy of seeing them again was immense — yet my first encounters with water saddened me. Polluted, heavy with organic matter and plastic, it stood in sharp contrast to the pristine waters of Yakushima.

Then, by chance, I was drawn to a small koi pond beside a little restaurant — hardly an inspiring place for photography. The light was harsh, reflections chaotic. Still, I began to shoot. I waited for the clouds to soften the brightness, and little by little, I let the mind go and entered into a quiet dialogue with the water.

What began as frustration became a dance — with the wind, the reflections, and the koi themselves. I teased them to rise and sink again, letting them brush against my hand, until the surface came alive with texture, colour, and motion. From this seeming chaos, a subtle structure emerged — and in it, new images, new manifestations.

When I arrived in Bali for the second time, my intention was to explore the temples dedicated to water — to meet the monks, speak with them about their special relationship with water, and understand how they use it to heal, to care for the people who come to bathe in those sacred springs.

But when I arrived, the children were in a new house with a swimming pool. On their first day of school, I took my underwater housing — mostly just to test it — and stepped into the water. There was a small jet, and I began photographing the bubbles. I quickly became mesmerised by the constant transformations in their structure beneath the surface.

Little by little, unexpected forms began to appear in my photographs, drawing me deeper into exploration. Each image led me further, until I realised that I had spent six full weeks photographing nothing but water — and everything that reveals itself through it — in that small pool in Bali.