Fabian, looking back at your journey, how did it all begin? Was there a moment when you realized photography could become your way of exploring the world?

Photography became a way for me to question how we perceive reality. Early on, I realized I wasn’t interested in documenting the world as it is, but in constructing moments that feel real while never having truly existed.

Your work often revolves around three fundamental dimensions: time, space, and reality. Have these always been central to your practice, or did they emerge gradually over time?

Time and space are the two components that make up reality. By altering either one of them, you can fabricate reality itself. That's been the thread running through my entire practice, from my early work, where I fabricated moments in time that never existed, to the sculptural work, which deals with the distortion of space in order to alter our perception of reality. The medium changed. The question never did.

Many of your works originate from real events that occur too quickly to be perceived by the human eye. What draws you to these invisible moments that photography is able to reveal?

High-speed photography takes the core idea of the medium, recording time, to its absolute extreme. When you look at a milk drop or a bullet slicing through a card, you become suddenly aware of the passage of time, because you realize what you're seeing exists for a fraction of a second. It's only in a photograph that you can stop it. In real life, it moves on relentlessly.

In 'Nature’s Drawings', each experiment triggers the next, forming a continuous chain of events. What role do control and unpredictability play within this system?How do you relate to what escapes your control during the process?

I think of my role in these experiments less as an author and more as an architect of conditions. I set the parameters, the materials, the forces, the constraints, and within that framework, nature does what it does. What escapes my control isn't a failure. It's the actual subject.

In your work, destruction never appears as a negative act, but rather as a necessary step toward creation. What does this process of deconstruction and reconstruction represent for you?

Destruction in my work is never an endpoint. It is a transformation, a way of dismantling familiar forms so they can be reassembled into something new. The process mirrors how memory and perception continuously reconstruct reality.

In the ‘CutUp' series, you work with technological objects through a process that combines advanced techniques with direct, hands-on interaction with materials. How important is the physical engagement with the object and materials themselves within your creative process?

Physical engagement is central to the work. We are physical beings; we understand reality through seeing, hearing, touch, even smell. So if I want to alter reality, I have to begin with real objects, real materials, and real spaces. The transformation has to feel plausible to the viewer because it comes from something tangible. In that sense, the process of transformation is the actual work. The final image or sculpture is only its manifestation.

In ‘Volumen', painting leaves the surface and becomes three-dimensional, almost sculptural. What is it like to work with paint once it becomes something physical?

Volumen exists in dialogue with the Spatial Books series. In Spatial Books, I translate physical objects into layered, almost image-like structures. In Volumen, I became interested in reversing that direction, taking something traditionally confined to the surface and releasing it into space. When I look at Pollock or de Kooning, I see painting already pushing against the flatness of the canvas. The gesture, the velocity, the accumulation of paint almost seem to want to become an object. Volumen takes that idea literally. The work attempts to detach the gesture from the canvas entirely, allowing paint to exist as a suspended physical structure rather than an image of one.

Today, we live in a moment where images can appear real without being so, and our perception of reality is increasingly unstable. In your view, what defines a “real” moment today?

Today, reality can be simulated with increasing precision, which makes the boundary between documentation and construction increasingly unstable. For me, a “real” moment is not defined by whether it happened exactly as we believe it did, but by whether it can convincingly occupy our perception as reality. Much of my work operates precisely in that space, constructing moments through photography and sculpture that feel believable, while quietly undermining the certainty of what we are looking at.

Which project has challenged you the most, both technically and emotionally, and why?

Momentum was probably the most challenging project, because it required translating a photographic instant into a physical object. Photography normally captures time as an image on a flat surface. With Momentum, I wanted to reconstruct a real moment spatially, almost turning time itself into sculpture. It demanded years of technical experimentation, but more importantly, it forced me to rethink photography not as documentation, but as raw material for constructing reality.

At a time when artificial intelligence is increasingly shaping how images are created, and the presence of the artist seems to be losing its centrality, what still makes the human act of creating unique?

I believe the artist becomes even more central because of artificial intelligence. AI can help us process information or solve technical problems, but it cannot feel for us. That remains a fundamentally human quality. I’m currently working on a series about memory: suspended fields of paint inside blocks of resin that form three-dimensional portraits of my grandparents, or rather, portraits of how I remember them. Only the parts that remain vivid in my memory fully emerge: the way my grandfather’s mouth shaped when he laughed, or the intense blue of my grandmother’s eyes. Other areas dissolve or remain absent because I can no longer truly recall them. The works are therefore not only portraits of my grandparents, but also sculptures that explore the structure of human memory itself, fragmented, selective, incomplete. AI can assist with the technical side of the process, but it does not experience loss, nostalgia, or remembrance. When it hears the word “grandmother,” nothing is felt. Human memory, precisely because of its imperfections, remains deeply human.