Preserving the instant

I photograph light as it shapes the world. Sometimes it's golden, breaking through winter clouds to illuminate a snow-covered road. Sometimes it's the corona of a total eclipse—absolute darkness revealing absolute light. Sometimes it's the glow before dawn, turning desert mist to amber, or the last blue hour when monuments emerge from darkness.

I'm drawn to what commands presence. The Pyramids. Saint Patrick’s neo-gothic spires dissolving into New York fog. The Duomo's white marble ablaze against darkening sky. Ancient columns reaching upward, framing nothing but air. A checkered corridor so perfectly symmetrical it becomes a meditation on infinity. I photograph from below to feel their weight, through gnarled tree canopies to fracture light, waiting always for the moment when stone and sky and shadow align.

Most of my work is stillness—empty stages waiting. But I've learned to recognize the grace in interruption: a lone crow crossing vast orange dune; A pelican landing, wings spread against turquoise water. Scarlet ibis exploding across green mangroves like scattered tinders. A woman bent over her broom in morning light. A child clinging to her mother's leg and another peering through a window. Someone sleeping on a turquoise bench beneath sprawling branches. These moments arrive unannounced, and I witness them from a distance that honors both the gesture and the privacy of the soul making it.

This is my practice: to travel through deserts and cities and swamps and mountains, to stand before what endures and what vanishes, to find beauty in the brilliant and the dark, the monumental and the intimate. To see the world compositionally—always the right angle, always the frame within the frame. To wait for light that transforms what's familiar into something you can't look away from.

To preserve the instant when everything aligns.