The Moment That Changed Everything
I am Dato. My story starts under a chestnut tree in Georgia, where a single leaf drifted down, slowed by some whisper in the air. Time folded itself open, or maybe it held its breath. That stillness stayed with me. When sound returned, I raced inside to draw what I saw before it could vanish.
They call it extreme emotional sensitivity. For me, it means the world arrives in sudden waves: soft or overwhelming, gentle or loud. Art began as shelter. Photography became my orator, calling out moments I needed not to forget. The camera holds fact and feeling alike, it did not blink. It captured: here, this happened.
Between Two Worlds: Tbilisi and Lyon
Georgia lives in my bones, light angles slipping through old rain smells, stairwells still echoing youthful shouts. Lyon shapes me differently, rigid edges, steel bridges under skies softened by the Rhône. Two cities, two breaths. They frame the space where my creation sits, and where the chestnut leaf still descends.
Photography as Listening
I learned to listen with my hands. The lens lets me speak quietly without apology, creating distance that never abandons. When noise crashes in, I measure it with light stops, turn panic into exposure, tenderness into grain that sticks to skin. Portraits hold a promise: stand here, lean on me, we’ll float a little longer. Landscapes vow horizons won’t shatter. Each click pushes back against time’s eraser.
AI: Dreaming Beyond the Frame
AI arrived unexpected, urgent. It became a darkroom that dreams. Photography ties me to reality’s bones; AI lets my soul write margins, secret notes. These tools aren’t rivals, but partners. Photography freezes the world; AI spins it anew. Together, they whisper in a language only memory understands.
With AI, shadows emerge from daylight, to walk forward, unmasked. Surreal photorealism, call it that if you like. To me, it’s the same leaf, mid-descent, offering its hidden stories.
The Power of Words and Poetry
Words follow images. Poetry, mostly in French, Georgian, or Russian, sneaks in when sentences find different paths. These poems aren’t for eyes wide open; they live close, in quiet rooms. However, that was in the past. Recently, after an important personal turning point, something shifted, I began to share my writings publicly. Words are breaths caught on paper, shadows warming the cold edges of light. They don’t ask for order. They arrive with their own storms. Some linger like old friends; some say goodbye before you can say hello.
Writing is my quiet companion. It uncovers what photos cannot show, a pulse, a sigh behind the lingering light. It keeps me tethered, alongside camera and code.
Learning From Time and Art
Time and art teach with fierce patience. Films hiding secrets until the last frame. Paintings bleeding without breaking their edges. Songs stretching distance between light and quiet confession. None told me what to see; all urged me to keep looking after the stage went dark. To keep the lens warm, the page open, even if the scene seems done.
Holding Time at Bay
My work resists time’s demands. It wants smooth, forgetful surfaces. I choose scars that gleam. Photography collects existence’s raw proofs. AI summons the invisible to bear witness. Together, they build a shape solid enough to cross between Georgia’s memories and a French afternoon murmuring patience.
Every day breaks open with small miracles, a streetlamp’s flicker, a dog refusing the bridge, dust rising without wind. Photography steals the cipher, AI deciphers it. The result isn’t prettiness, it’s truth, a confession time almost forgot.
Videos & Animations - the Persistence of Memory
Small loops join the work now. Brief, repeating gestures that refuse to dissolve into silence. These experiments catch what slips away, giving memory fresh rhythm, new breath.
Animation sustains alongside photography and poetry, a continuous beat, a reminder the fleeting insists on lasting.
A Dialogue Across Mediums
Photography locks moments in place. AI opens windows to possibilities. Writing breathes between. Together, they balance risk with discipline, stillness with motion. Georgia hums near the floorboards. Lyon leans against dusk. I keep my lens clean, my lights low, pages ready, hands steady.
Some days fail. Some nights succeed. But every morning I listen, still waiting, patient, hooded by the leaf that falls endlessly, still falling, still calling for me to return to creation.
Steadily,
Dato