My Quantum Art — a first-person explanation

My Quantum Art — a first-person explanation

I call my work quantum art not because I paint equations, but because I’ve learned—patiently, stubbornly—that attention changes what it touches. I set a clear intention, I go out into the world, and I listen. When reality answers—through a number that repeats, a color that insists, an encounter that shouldn’t have happened—I respond with images. The camera doesn’t “hunt” the real; it invites what matters to show itself.

I don’t aim to convince you of a theory. I’m documenting a conversation: between desire and world, between observer and the things observed. Where some see coincidence, I see threads. My quantum art is the act of weaving those threads until a pattern becomes visible.

Why I call it “quantum” (without the jargon)

Because it’s about possibility and relationship. The observer isn’t neutral. What I hold in mind—gently but precisely—changes how the day unfolds and what I’m able to notice. That shift is small, intimate, and human. But when I honor it with discipline—notes, dates, contact sheets, edits—it becomes work.

I’m not illustrating physics; I’m practicing truthfulness: witnessing those moments when the world replies with disarming precision. Quantum, to me, means living with two certainties at once: humility before mystery, and responsibility for my attention.

How I work (my private protocol)

1. Set an intention
   I write what I want to co-create. I name it with care, as if it already existed and only needed to be called.

2. Wait with attention
   I go out without hurry. I don’t chase images; I let synchronies find me. A license plate repeating 111, a wooden board marked with a 5 deep in the forest, a blue light that won’t be ignored. When my chest clicks, I stop.

3. Record and shape meaning
   I photograph. Later, I sort—not by spectacle but by coherence: what truly answered the intention, what was noise. If the set holds a story, I have a series. If not, I listen longer.

This is my entire method: clear intention, sincere listening, honest record.

Stories that taught me to trust my method

Nora — a promise kept by reality
One day I wrote that I wished for a dog with heart-shaped spots and a gentle temperament. I visualized it in detail. Months later Nora appeared—exactly as I had drawn her in my mind. The series isn’t about a pet; it’s the photographic trace of an agreement between desire and the world.

Tantra Azul — painting what the body won’t say
I found a blue light on an ordinary night. I took it to the studio, dimmed the noise, and began to paint bodies with light in long exposures. Breath set the tempo. The blue wasn’t aesthetics; it was a state. Since then I know light can feel—and sometimes reveals what words can’t carry.

Cinco (The Silent Cry) — learning to hear the forest
In Valsaín, a 5 nailed into wood. A few steps away, fallen trees stacked as if someone—or something—wanted to be seen. I photographed the scene and later built an installation called The Silent Cry. The forest speaks to those who arrive without noise and stay.

Signos Intangibles → La Mirada Cuántica (The Quantum Gaze) — from data to destiny
Numbers started leaping at me: 111, 222, 333… I photographed them without irony, like collecting shells. Years later I understood the proof wasn’t each photo—it was the mosaic they formed together: every frame a pixel of a larger statement—the whole is one. When someone stands silent in front of those panels, I know understanding arrived without explanation.

15M — when intention belongs to many
Before the camp in Puerta del Sol, I had seen, inside, a tide of people in Madrid. When it came, I went with my Hasselblad and documented it with the feeling of being inside something asked for by many at once. I don’t speak of personal power; I speak of tuning.

London Soul / Quantum Museums — traveling in order to arrive
London taught me how to say goodbye to an older self. Walking to the museum with a mantra in my ears, everything seemed to vibrate on the same string. I photographed so I wouldn’t forget that unity. Those images are the trace of a refined gaze, not the product of a trick.

What I offer the viewer

I don’t want to persuade you. I want to look with you. If my images work, they do so not by what they explain but by what they awaken: the suspicion that there is meaning where there seemed to be chance; the confidence that your attention matters.

This is my ethics of attention:
• ask precisely,
• make daily room for the answer,
• record honestly,
• refuse to decorate what didn’t arrive.

Want to practice it yourself?

• Name what you want to witness, with tender precision.
• Give it five minutes a day of true silence.
• Go out and listen; record without forcing.
• Sort what you gathered; discard what doesn’t speak to your intention.
• Repeat. Truth needs time more than explanations.

Closing

My quantum art isn’t a definition—it’s a path. Some days there’s a photograph; some days there’s silence. Both belong to the work. If anything you’ve read or seen here makes you tune your gaze a little finer, then we are already co-creating.