Construction carves out something of the sky and the area, the very ground it is built upon. Replacing the cellar as its smaller predecessor, the vast labyrinth of a basement garage often extends to amazing size and depth. Strangely enough, the largest shadow a house can cast is now found beneath it, as if the building doubled down under the ground, like a dark mirrored image of itself.

Homecoming by car has become a daily ritual of descent. Sometimes it feels like the upper part of the building standing on the ground is just the tip of an iceberg. The gateway is leading, with light fading step by step, down into the dark: guts, underground, crypt, inferno. My photographs stand still on the threshold and gaze into the invisible, beyond imagination.

Grounds (2005—) is an antithesis to Skies, they mutually complement, but undermine each other at the same time.