Taking pictures is my lifelong hobby. I look for color and the delicate balance of light and shadow. I notice shapes and lines and love playing with the placement or arrangement of people and things within the frame of the picture. I try not to think too much about why I take the pictures I take or what draws me to a particular scene. It’s mostly just instinct, shooting from the heart. I tend to work in project mode–creating, culling and curating groups of images that seem to fit together in some indefinable way. I’d like to say that I make photo books that tell stories, but I’m not sure they do. What I can say is that this whole process feels like an integral part of who I am, and that feels like enough. I’ve struggled with anxiety and tried very hard at every. single. thing. Nowadays, I keep this simple mantra in mind: If it’s not perfect, it must be just right.
what to love when you’re running out of things to love
“Pick any landscape—a kitchen counter, a waiting room, that part of your body
you shield from photographs—and narrow the distance between you. At first,
the stains will monopolize your eye. Each blight and crack and overgrowth,
a seismic disruption. If you can bear the stillness of not looking away, if you
step even closer, the contours will begin to lose their meaning. The noise
of an old story will fade. New shapes will emerge, like petals after a hard rain.
I’m not saying you will desire, suddenly, the pits and pores of the world,
or that your hands passing over every rough surface will feel fresh tenderness.
But you’ll notice your breathing has softened, your heart a door you can open
past the jambs. How there’s room for what you see, and everything you can’t.”