Behind the Frame
I’m drawn to the unscripted—the quiet choreography that plays out in shadows, in sidewalks, in the gestures people don’t know they’re making. My work starts with a question, not a plan. A flicker at the edge of the frame. A pause in the noise. What we overlook. What won’t let go.
Most of my images live in the city’s undercurrent: alleyways with attitude, signage sun-bleached into whispers, graffiti that feels more gospel than vandalism. I chase texture, tension, and the poetry of what refuses to disappear. But lately, my lens has shifted. The quiet observation is still there—but now it’s chasing something louder. Truer. I'm moving toward photojournalism not as a pivot, but as a continuation. The street as witness. The image as evidence.
What I’m building isn’t just a body of work—it’s a practice in presence.
Sometimes it's black-and-white, sometimes loud with color. Sometimes it’s art. Sometimes it’s fieldwork. But always, it begins the same way: with a moment asking to be seen.
I photograph what lingers.
What leans.
What slips past most eyes, but not mine.
Artist Statement
My work drifts between stillness and motion, between what’s breaking down and what quietly endures. I move fluidly between black and white and color, depending on what the moment asks. One feels like shadow and breath, the other like static and heat. Both help me listen.
I’m drawn to what the city leaves behind—spaces that were never meant to be seen but still hum with presence. A half-lit neon sign. A locked alley washed in morning light. Graffiti that outlives its maker. These aren’t just images of place. They’re moments that almost disappeared.
I started with street photography. Raw. Unfiltered. I still move that way, but lately I feel the pull toward something slower, deeper—stories that unfold rather than shout. Photojournalism feels like the natural next step. Not a departure, but a deepening. I don’t aim for perfection. I aim to pay attention.
When I work in black and white, I’m watching how the light behaves—how shadow stretches, how a wall holds memory, how the absence of color sharpens the truth. When I work in color, I lean into tension. A painted brick buzzes with history. A yellow sign glows against dusk. Stillness becomes electric.
There’s rarely a plan. I don’t arrange or wait. I walk, I notice, I respond. The camera is my way of tuning in. Not to document, but to witness. Not to frame beauty, but to recognize it in the overlooked. In the fading. In the quiet.
Each image is a breath held just long enough for someone else to feel it.