Like many photographers, I’m drawn to what’s in between: dawn instead of daylight, the transition of seasons, the places that feel both familiar and distant. For years, travel and landscape photography scratched that itch.

But over time, I found myself less interested in creating windows into an experience. Too often, it felt like I was trying to prove where I’d been and how well I could compose an image. Eventually, I realized I didn’t want viewers to admire the picture—I wanted them to feel something—about themselves. I still valued clarity and form, but I needed a different kind of language—one that made space for memory and emotion… a way for the viewer to experience my images much more personally. That’s when I started letting go of precision and began chasing motion, layering, and blur—not to abandon straight photography, but to find a way to expose what lingers beneath the surface.

My images come from many places—parks and coastlines, city streets and quiet forests. But I’m less interested in where they’re made than in what they hold: a shift in light, a fleeting mood, a trace of something felt but hard to explain. What stays with me are the things that can’t be neatly named—a feeling, a trace, a shadow that lingers. I’m trying to make images that resonate like memory or music: not literal, but familiar in a way you can feel in your body. Each photograph is an attempt to hold something elusive. A moment, a presence, a shift in light. Something real—even if we can’t quite say where, or when.