Short notes from the street: where a frame was made, what almost went wrong, and what stayed with me after the shutter.
Some photographs are found, others are ambushed. For the closing frame of Penumbra I stood at the same corner for forty minutes, watching a slab of afternoon light crawl across the wall until it became a stage. Then it was only a matter of who would walk into it first.
See the seriesSaltwater Colors began as an accident: spray on the front element that I could not wipe fast enough. The blur it left behind said more about summer than any sharp frame I made that day. I stopped wiping.
See the seriesUnfaced grew out of a simple rule: photograph people at the exact moment they cannot be recognised. A turned back, a raised newspaper, a shadow across the eyes. What is left when the face is gone is posture, and posture rarely lies.
See the series