I was born in Sarajevo.
When I was 12 years old, I broke my leg skiing, and I had to stay in bed for four months. Bored to death, I started playing a rusty guitar, which took my mind off sports. In the high school, I started reading most of the authors one hardly ever mentioned. My desire was to be a painter, but I was never good at drawing faces. I got “stuck” with music until I started writing my first novel.
After three chapters, I was sick and tired of fiction. I didn’t like the fact I was deciding about the destiny of the characters in it. I got tired of debating whether the main hero should die or not. I figured I wasn’t God. And I wasn’t.
Since I got lost in Istanbul briefly when I was 2-3 years old, I had felt the presence of Real World imbued with the smell of life. The odors and the colors of it left a mystical imprint that still flows under my skin. Istanbul is still my favorite place to “get lost,” as if entering the gates of the familiar unknown.
When I finally got hold of my first digital modest little Olympus, I started capturing intangible moments. Some just left me in awe before I even remembered I had a camera on me. I learned that the best pictures are never taken; some of them remain the same, while the memories of others slowly fade away.
Music, writing, and photography became flip sides of the same 3D coin that keeps me spinning around this amazing world…
My Father and I, somewhere in Oregon.
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