I have always felt there is another layer to the world, running just beneath the visible one — something you can sense if you slow down far enough, or allow yourself to listen without hurrying to define. Photography, for me, grew naturally out of that instinct. Not as a way to capture things, but as a way to stay present inside them.

 

Before I turned toward this work with real seriousness,

my life moved through different rooms: literature, poetry, periods of disciplined spiritual practice, and many years working as an image-maker in the commercial world.

None of these were departures; they were apprenticeships in attention. Each taught me something about presence, about care, about the weight that simple things can hold when you stop treating them as simple.

 

Over time, I became less interested in photography as representation and more interested in it as an inner act —

a quiet negotiation with uncertainty, with memory, with the body, with the world as it is. Much of the recent work has been shaped by times of contraction and disruption, when human life became smaller and more fragile, but the land continued with its steady indifference. Standing in those spaces, I felt something like recognition. The world wasn’t performing for me. It was simply continuing. That felt like a form of instruction.

 

My practice now is less about seeking images and more about allowing them to arrive. Sometimes they come gently. Sometimes they tear through. Sometimes they refuse to come at all. The task is to stay open long enough that, when something true appears, you are able to receive it.

 

Awards, exhibitions, publishing — they exist around the work, and I’m grateful for them. But the deeper thread has always been the same: to remain attentive; to return to the body; to remain human in the face of uncertainty; and, where possible, to make something that might help someone else feel a little less alone inside their own weather.

 

If the images speak, I would like them to speak softly.

And if they stay, I hope it is because they recognise something already living in the viewer.