- ABOMEY’S KINGDOM
- AFTERLIFE
- BACK-UP
- CLANDESTINO
- COLONIAL TRYPTICH
- COS
- CRIMES & BANANAS
- ESCAPE
- ESPLANADE
- FELIX
- GRETA
- MATEUSZ
- MULATA
- OLTION
- POLLINATION
- RODNA
- SHANGÔ & OSHUN
- STIGMÂTES
- SOFTNESS
- STREET PHOTOGRAPHY
- THE NO FACES
- VIDESA
- VINCENT
- WHITE BUT BLACK
- YOVO
- تونس
THE NO FACES
THAILAND-LAOS-VIETNAM / 2024
They move like shadows beneath the sun, wrapped in cloth, masked from light, stripped of name, of face, of self. In the chaos of Asia’s tourist-fueled spectacle, they are the invisible hands behind the illusion. Their skin must not tan, their features must not distract—they vanish into the backdrop, faceless, genderless, a quiet tribe that keeps the machine running.
They are gardeners, sweepers, street vendors, cleaners. They glide past with wide hats, long sleeves, and soft eyes you rarely meet. Like castes reborn in modern form, they are present everywhere, yet seen by no one. The no faces don’t ask for your gaze. Their work is to beautify the country for others—to hold it up, pristine and postcard-perfect, while remaining hidden in plain sight.
In this theatre of sun and consumption, they are the ghost crew behind the curtain. Each one carries a silent dignity, an anonymity that protects and erases all at once. And still, they return each morning, folding into the crowd, becoming part of the landscape. No name, no face, but without them—nothing moves.
THAILAND-LAOS-VIETNAM / 2024
They move like shadows beneath the sun, wrapped in cloth, masked from light, stripped of name, of face, of self. In the chaos of Asia’s tourist-fueled spectacle, they are the invisible hands behind the illusion. Their skin must not tan, their features must not distract—they vanish into the backdrop, faceless, genderless, a quiet tribe that keeps the machine running.
They are gardeners, sweepers, street vendors, cleaners. They glide past with wide hats, long sleeves, and soft eyes you rarely meet. Like castes reborn in modern form, they are present everywhere, yet seen by no one. The no faces don’t ask for your gaze. Their work is to beautify the country for others—to hold it up, pristine and postcard-perfect, while remaining hidden in plain sight.
In this theatre of sun and consumption, they are the ghost crew behind the curtain. Each one carries a silent dignity, an anonymity that protects and erases all at once. And still, they return each morning, folding into the crowd, becoming part of the landscape. No name, no face, but without them—nothing moves.
