An open Interview with Photographer Luis Felipe Graña

In a world saturated with noise and relentless motion, photographer Luis Grana turns his lens toward something quieter—something often overlooked. In the heart of Luzern, where cobblestone streets meet the stillness of the lake and the hush of early morning light, Grana’s work invites us to slow down. His images do not demand attention; they earn it gently, revealing themselves in subtle textures, fleeting gestures, and the poetry of everyday life.

Grana’s photography is less about spectacle and more about presence. He captures the pause between movements, the soft interplay of shadow and reflection, and the unnoticed details that quietly shape our experience of a place. Through his work, Luzern becomes more than a picturesque city—it transforms into a living meditation on awareness, reminding us that beauty is often found not in what shouts, but in what whispers.

You returned to photography after decades away from it. What moment or realisation sparked the decision to rebuild your creative life in late adulthood?

It was a moment in my life where I was experiencing great loss and solitude. I was being forced to re-discover myself and my purpose. In this context, I was able to acknowledge the one thing that had always made me feel unique and authentic and this was the practice of photography as an art. There was no doubt I had to start where I had left off.

Coming from a strong religious background, how has faith influenced the way you see the world through your camera today?

My background in theology and my years in the seminary continue to shape the way I look at the world. Even in the street, I’m not drawn to events or decisive moments, but to something quieter — a form of attention that lingers rather than captures.

What interests me are images that remain open, that resist resolution, where the ordinary carries a quiet, almost imperceptible tension. In this sense, I feel close to the sensibility of Luigi Ghirri, where the visible world is never fully exhausted by what it shows.

My process is to remain within the scene for as long as possible, allowing it to unfold rather than trying to seize it. This can be challenging in the street, where everything shifts so quickly. But I’m not interested in the surface of the moment — I’m looking beyond it, toward something quieter that reveals itself with time.

For me, beauty is not decorative; it is a form of evidence — an empirical trace of the divine, and perhaps the most direct way we have of approaching the meaning of existence.

Life is not meant to be fully understood, but experienced. In that sense, nothing needs to be proven — everything is already there, in front of us. My photographs are attempts at holding that awareness, like brief moments of spiritual recollection.

Restarting a creative path later in life can feel uncomfortable or uncertain. What fears or doubts did you have when you began again, and how did you move through them?

My only fear is not having enough time to create the body of work I know I’m capable of.

Time will tell—but I’m not shying away from the challenge.

After such a long break from photography, what surprised you the most about your creativity when you returned to it?

I’m creative in essence—I see things from different angles, beyond the obvious. But when I shoot, I return to the same gestures, the same process, again and again. Creativity shapes how I see. Repetition shapes how I make.

Your journey shows a lot of determination. What practices or habits helped you push forward creatively even when the process felt unfamiliar or challenging?

I did spend quite some time coming up with my current process and organizing it. The fact is that every session, from the moment I step out of my house until I print the pieces I follow the same script and steps. Every element from the equipment, to the editing to the printing has been assessed and sequenced to allow me to focus fully on the scene and my capacity to make it an art piece.

For others who feel they may be ‘too late’ to return to their artistic passions, what would you want them to understand from your experience?

I resist calling art a passion. Passions are fleeting. They can be abandoned, postponed, left behind when life asks for something else. But art is identity. I stepped away from photography for years, but I never ceased to be an artist. So when I came back, it wasn’t a beginning— it was a return. Or maybe more honestly, a decision to stop running from myself.

What would you say to a young artist who is just starting their path in the art industry?

Don’t allow fear to get in the way of your talent and if you do, have the courage to start again, you owe this to yourself and to others.

On the other hand, If you think you have nothing new to say, yes maybe you need to stop.

What is the most difficult in the art world and more rewarding for you, personally?

The art world is competitive—at times, ruthless. It teaches you to expect nothing, to keep going assuming recognition may never come. And yet, what I receive feels enough. There’s a quiet joy when people tell me they can stay with my images. Not to analyze them, but to feel them and evoke feelings of melancholy, loss, calm, loneliness and sometimes a gentle sense of peace.

Small, unexpected awakenings. That is my greatest reward.

Find Luis here: IG >> luisfelipegrana & >> https://luisgrana.com/