From Flashbulbs to Freedom: My Journey Behind the Lens

 I began my journey in 1999, working alongside my father in his agency, ADC Diffusion International, which later became unimediaimages.com. Back then, I was young, hungry, and full of wonder—covering red carpets, festivals, and concerts. Sometimes, I’d accompany my father on private interviews with legends like Sting, The Beach Boys, Ravi Shankar, Angelina Jolie (before Hollywood transformed her), and countless others whose names have since faded from memory but whose faces are burned into my mind.

Later, I moved to London to work with Filmmagic, covering news and high-profile events. But the industry was changing fast—the rise of Getty Images turned photography into a ruthless game of survival. I then joined Wenn, where I was introduced to the world of paparazzi—raw, unfiltered, and relentless. Suddenly, my photos weren’t just art; they were currency.

After five years, Owen Beany, Wenn’s head, offered me a position in Los Angeles. That’s where everything changed.

In Britain, people mostly embraced the flash of the camera—unless scandal was involved. In LA, it was different. There were no laws against photographers, yet there was an invisible line between curiosity and intrusion. I soon understood why.

It was chaos—swarms of photographers with short lenses, chasing stars in blinding light, disregarding safety or decency. There was money, fame, and madness. I spent endless days waiting outside celebrity homes, my Prius GPS filled with license plates and addresses. I hid beneath towels on the beaches of Malibu, waiting for that one perfect shot under the scorching sun.

Competition was brutal. Some agencies hired people who were half-thugs, half-paparazzi—X17 was infamous for it. Others, like Splash, tried to recruit me with false promises just to crush Wenn’s US presence. Agencies like Flynet and Pacific Coast News ruled the game because they had what everyone else wanted: information.
They paid security guards, drivers, hotel staff—even airport personnel—for tips about flights and arrivals. In Mexico, everything had a price. If Jennifer Aniston was flying to Cabo, we’d know before she landed. We’d prepare the boat, the angle, the lens. But competition always found a way to ruin the plan—sometimes even using mirrors to blind our shots.

Eventually, things shifted. We began negotiating directly with the stars. Some accepted our presence; others wanted privacy. Deals were made—exclusive sets in exchange for a share of sales. Soon, celebrities started selling their own stories directly to magazines like People or Us Weekly. The business was evolving—and so was I.

The adrenaline was addictive. I drove for hours around Santa Monica and Beverly Hills, searching for that familiar license plate, ready to turn the wheel and follow. A fellow paparazzo named Stekyndt drove a secondhand taxi to stay invisible. I used a different rental car every month to do the same. If you didn’t get a sellable shot that day, you earned nothing. We exchanged information like currency:

“You tell me when Britney leaves Malibu, I’ll tell you when Angelina steps out in Hollywood.”

Sometimes, I waited so long outside a gate that I’d use a bottle instead of leaving to pee—because if you missed the moment, it was gone forever.

And I did miss one.
The day Michael Jackson was taken out in an ambulance, I was too far in the canyon. I only caught the ambulance—not him. That one image could have changed everything. Instead, it became the one that got away.

My visa expired after five years, bringing me to 2012. My wife was pregnant with our second daughter, money was tight, and the stress had become unbearable. We had no support network in the U.S., so I took an offer from Sipa Press in France. They promised stability—€1,500 a month, a new beginning. But after taxes, it was half that. Still, I threw myself into the work, covering the Hollande election and the Cannes Film Festival, even as my scooter was stolen and exhaustion set in.
My photos were everywhere—on magazine covers, in the Paris metro—but not my name, not my reward. After six months, they let me go.

So I started again. Independently. My wife and I launched an online business selling goods to Korea, and I began photographing Korean couples and fashion shoots for Valentino. I no longer chased stars; I chased light, composition, and meaning. Sometimes, I’d still stumble upon a celebrity—but the thrill had transformed. The chaos was gone. In its place, peace.

This year, a book was published featuring my photo on the cover and twelve of my images inside. The author, Patrick Roussel, once Johnny Hallyday’s bodyguard, used photos from a time when trust still existed between artist and photographer—when we worked hand in hand to protect both image and dignity.

Now, I look back and see a lifetime of ghosts—moments lost, archives vanished, dreams fading. The images that once paid my rent and fueled my adrenaline now sleep on forgotten hard drives.

But even if the money is gone, the story remains.
I started with a camera, chasing fame through other people’s lives.
Now, I chase truth, silence, and beauty through my own.
And maybe, that’s what I was meant to find all along.