Pick up a tool that’s been used for years and you can feel it before you can explain it: a handle worn smooth exactly where a hand always lands, an edge rounded down by nothing dramatic, just repetition. Nobody shaped that on purpose. Thousands of ordinary motions did.

N points a camera at a factory with that same idea in mind. Not at what it produces, but at what the production process leaves behind. Heavy machines don’t usually get photographed with much care, they’re documentation for a manual at best. Here they pose instead, lit and framed the way you’d shoot a person, scratches and wear standing in for the wrinkles a portrait usually looks for. Workers appear the opposite way, a joint, a gesture, a patch of skin under factory light, the kind of close-up a spec sheet would use for a part, not a person. The line between the two blurs.

That wear is the actual record of the work, a texture that tells a story about time and how it was spent, more so than any photograph of what came off the line. The photobook carries the same idea in its own way. Every copy has a unique engraved drawing on the wrapper, so no two are identical; the pages are sewn, not glued; the cover is a die-cut of the letter N. The same logic that runs through the factory applied to the production of object in your hands, merging what the pages show and what the object is.

N was commissioned by Mustang, shot and exhibited inside their factory in Elche, and documented their production process by giving it shape through the production of a hand-made object. It was less about photographing a place than about discovering how the experience of a photograph could be something you hold, not just something you look at.