Why I’m Finally Sharing This Side of My Vision
For most of my life as a photographer, I’ve been building a career the way a lot of working artists do: saying yes, showing up, making images, and learning—again and again—how to translate the world into something people can live with.
And for a long time, the work the public knew me for leaned heavily into what I do professionally: nature photography, color, the kind of imagery that can bring calm and beauty into a space. I love that work. I’ve devoted decades to it.
But for just as long—since I was a kid staring at black-and-white photographs in magazines—there has been another part of me. A quieter part. The part that fell in love with photography not as “content,” not as proof that I went somewhere, but as a kind of transformation.
Black and white has always been a cornerstone of my vision. It’s in my DNA.
So why am I branching out now? Why am I putting this work forward, publicly, as its own thing?
Because something happened a couple of years ago that re-lit the original fire.
The “Side Mission” That Turned Into Something Real
A friend I trust deeply—one of my photo brothers—gave me the best kind of advice. Simple. Clean. No pressure.
Shoot more black and white. Who cares what it is? Just shoot it.
And that permission did something to me. It pulled me back to the pure joy that got me into photography in the first place: grabbing a camera and seeing what I can find. No agenda. No expectations. Just the desire to look.
I started working in a long, unusual panoramic ratio—65×24—and it felt like a door opening. That shape forces a different kind of seeing. It pushes you away from the obvious. It asks for rhythm, structure, and patience. It makes you pay attention to textures, edges, patterns, and the way light moves across a surface.
It was a shot in the arm. An injection of inspiration.
And over time, this “side mission” became too important to keep tucked away.
Why Black and White Still Matters (Maybe More Than Ever)
We all live in color. But black and white does something that color can’t always do: it strips the world down to its bones.
Light becomes the subject. Shadow becomes a language. Texture becomes emotion. Ordinary objects turn into shapes and relationships. You stop being distracted by what something “is,” and you start noticing what it feels like.
That’s always been the magic for me.
When I was a kid, my dad would set up a little black-and-white darkroom in our bathroom. If you’ve ever watched an image rise up from blank paper in a tray of chemicals, you know what I mean when I say it’s transforming. It’s still amazing to me, even now. Almost 70 years old, and I still feel that awe.
That feeling is what I’m chasing in this work: transformation, distilled down to black, white, and everything in between.
Why I Want to Show It Now
Part of being an artist—especially after you’ve done it for a long time—is realizing that you don’t want your work to exist only as a private thrill. You want to see if it resonates. You want to put it on a wall. You want to create touchstones: a show, a collection, maybe a book.
Not just to sell it. To see if it lands.
I think every photographer wants, deep down, to leave some kind of lasting impression. Something people can access and hold and return to. A print. A book. A body of work that becomes a time capsule.
That’s what this is for me: a way of codifying a lifetime of looking into something coherent and physical—something that can live in the world long after the moment it was made.
What You’ll Find in This Series
This isn’t “black-and-white nature work.” I do nature for a living, and I love it—but this series has a different mission.
Here I’m drawn to:
textures and surfaces that feel like history
patterns and geometry
long quiet moments of light
the built world and the accidental poetry inside it
scenes that don’t shout, but keep pulling you back in
And the 65×24 ratio is more than a crop. It’s a commitment. It’s a way of composing that asks the viewer to slow down. To breathe. To take the photograph in the way you take in a landscape—across time, not in a glance.
An Invitation (If You’re a Collector)
If you’re here because you collect photography, I want you to know what I’m trying to offer.
These are not images meant for a quick scroll. They’re meant to be lived with—prints that hold their ground, that reveal more over time, that become part of the emotional architecture of a room.
If any of this speaks to you, I’d love to help you find the right piece—not just something that matches your wall, but something that matches your life.
Collector Note
Best spaces for 65×24 panoramas: long walls, hallways, above sofas, offices—places where the image can feel like a quiet horizon
How to choose a first piece: start with the one that makes you pause; the one you keep coming back to
Collecting approach: one strong “anchor” print can define a space; two works can begin a cohesive story
