Nele Bogaerts

Several of your films narrate a story around small, sensorial moments, like the wind on your skin or the feeling the warmth of the sun on our face. What makes these fleeting sensations important to you?

I am drawn to the small, fleeting sensations that often go unnoticed—the wind brushing against skin, the warmth of the sun, the weightlessness of water. These moments exist somewhere between reality and emotion, between the tangible and the imagined. Though impossible to fully capture, they linger in the body, in memory, and when evoked through imagery, they awaken something familiar within us. A photograph or film can never replicate an exact feeling but it can remind us of it—it can make the intangible felt.

You work with analogue photography, a medium known for its raw, real, and intentional qualities. What drew you to this process, and how does it help convey the stillness and authenticity in your work?

Analogue photography feels so human—imperfect, tactile, and honest. It slows everything down, forcing me to be present and trust my instincts. I started shooting film early in my photography studies, and it taught me patience—to wait for images to develop, to put projects aside and return to them with fresh eyes. That process of waiting, of not rechecking endlessly, gave me freedom.

But what draws me most to film is its unpredictability. The grain, the texture, the way light interacts with the medium—there is an organic depth to it that digital smooths over. Even when scanned, film retains a certain tactility, a physical presence that makes an image feel lived-in rather than polished. It embraces imperfections in a way that feels more human, more real. For me, film is not about nostalgia but about presence. It holds a quiet stillness, a personal layer, a mysterious touch—capturing not just what was seen, but what was felt.

Your work is characterized by a distinct color palette featuring natural blue hues and grey tones. Despite their neutrality, these colors evoke a vivid sense of place and texture. How does your use of color contribute to the rawness and authenticity of your imagery?

I often hear people recognize my images before even seeing my name attached to them. My use of color is instinctive—it’s not something I consciously decided but something that feels natural to me. I don’t know if I first saw the world in blue or if I trained myself to see it that way, but even when I’m not photographing, I notice it everywhere.

When others watch the last warm seconds of a sunset, I find myself looking the other way, drawn to the deepening blue of the sky—the moment before the night fully arrives. These muted, natural tones evoke a certain quietness, a depth that extends beyond the image itself. They strip away distractions, allowing texture, light, and emotion to take center stage—making the image feel raw and immersive.

In your short film in collaboration with artist Hans Temmerman, you use modern dance as a powerful form of self-expression, evoking a profound sense of freedom and fluidity. What inspired you to incorporate dance into your creative process, and how does it enrich the narratives you aim to tell?

I love working with dancers. In many ways, our roles are parallel—it’s my job to translate emotion into film, just as it’s theirs to express emotion through movement. When these two forms come together, something truly magical happens. Dancers have an incredible awareness of their bodies; every movement, every shift of the hand is intentional, with incredible attention to detail. Dance is pure, instinctive expression. 

The most exciting part is embracing both success and imperfection—allowing space for spontaneity. When we started working on this project, we intentionally left room for experimentation, letting the movement shape the narrative rather than confining it to a fixed structure. For me, photography and film are ways of connecting—with people, with energy, with emotion. Dance adds a new dimension to that connection, making it more fluid, raw, and alive.

In today’s society, we have the freedom to express ourselves and embrace who we are, yet this is often limited by societal norms and restrictive thought patterns. How do you perceive this tension, and do these boundaries influence or shape your creative work in any way? 

Working in an industry that constantly demands newness, speed, and visibility, I often feel the pressure to keep up. But my process has always been different. Before a shoot even happens, there is time—time to dream, to imagine, to let an idea slowly take shape. The preparation, the waiting, the unstructured moments of inspiration shape the vision before a single image is taken.

The process of creating is slow, immersive, thoughtful. But the moment the shoot is over, there’s no room for patience anymore—clients want instant results, social media is waiting for content. The edit still has to happen, yet there’s an expectation that the work is already done. Part of it comes from excitement, but there’s also a financial pressure behind it—images need to get out there, products need to be sold. The shift from deep deliberate creation to immediate consumption feels disorienting at times. When I feel rushed, I notice that my creativity doesn’t flow in the same way. I work at half capacity, executing rather than truly creating. Ideas need space to breathe, to unfold naturally, without pressure. I can definately feel the difference between free and more artistic work compared to commercial work for clients. In this way film photography helps me hold onto slowness as there is no other way than to wait. Its unpredictability and the patience analogue photography requires remind me that creativity isn’t meant to be rushed.