Welcome to My Journal
This isn’t a place for polished press releases or busy updates. It’s more of a notebook — a space for thoughts, works in progress, and the quiet in-betweens that don’t always make it into a gallery.
Here, I’ll share field notes from the coast and woods, reflections on projects like Echoes of Earth and Waters & Working Harbors, and the stories behind certain images that hold a little more weight.
I’m not chasing perfection here, just like I’m not in my photography. I’m chasing mood, memory, and the moments that stay with me long after I’ve packed up the camera.
Thanks for stopping by — I hope you find something here that lingers with you too.
Why I Work So Dark
People sometimes ask why my photographs lean so dark — heavy skies, deep shadows, the weight of water and weather. The truth is, I don’t see darkness as absence. I see it as presence.
Light is easy. It flatters, it pleases, it smooths out the rough edges. Darkness does the opposite. It carries texture, mood, silence. It reminds me that beauty isn’t always bright — sometimes it’s in the grit of a harbor, the hush of a marsh at dusk, or the line of a storm pushing across the horizon.
I’m not chasing perfect exposures or postcard colors. I’m chasing how it felt to stand there — quiet, raw, unsettled, honest. Darkness gives me that space. It turns a photograph from decoration into something that lingers, something you carry with you.
So when you see my work and notice the shadows first, know that’s intentional. That’s where I find the stillness, the tension, and the truth worth keeping.
Chasing Stillness in Motion
The coast is never still. Boats lean against the tide, nets lift and fall, clouds tear across the sky. Even in the woods, the air shifts — a branch creaks, a crow calls, shadows stretch. The world is always moving.
What pulls me in with a camera isn’t the movement itself, but the stillness tucked inside it. That one second when the water flattens, when a trawler sits heavy against the dock, when the forest feels like it’s holding its breath. It’s there, but only if you pay attention.
Photography lets me hold that moment. It freezes the pause inside all the noise. It reminds me that calm isn’t something you wait for — it’s hidden in plain sight, waiting to be seen.
That’s what I’m chasing. Not just the beauty of a place, but the stillness inside its motion.
The Power of Photographs
September 22, 2025
As I’ve been putting together a slideshow for our upcoming family reunion, I’ve spent hours looking through my grandmother’s photographs—images of her as a young woman, my great-uncles, and gatherings from reunions gone by. Many of the people in those pictures are no longer with us, but as I hold those photos in my hands, it feels as though they’re still close.
That’s the quiet strength of photography. A camera doesn’t just capture a face; it holds onto the emotion, the spirit, the fleeting moments that words can’t fully carry. Even decades later, a single image can stir laughter, tears, or the warmth of belonging.
It’s easy to forget, in our world of endless snapshots, just how vital photographs are. They aren’t just keepsakes—they’re time machines. They allow us to step back into a summer afternoon, a reunion meal, or a moment of joy that otherwise would have slipped away with memory.
This truth shapes how I approach my own art photography. When I press the shutter, I’m not just documenting a scene—I’m chasing that same spark that makes an old family photo feel alive. Whether it’s a fishing boat in storm light, a quiet stretch of marsh, or even the stillness of an abandoned structure, I want my images to carry that weight of presence.
Because photographs, at their best, remind us that what was once here still matters. They keep us connected, not just to the past, but to the stories that continue to unfold every time we look at them.
So the next time you come across your own box of photographs—or scroll through your phone’s camera roll—pause for a moment. Let yourself feel the laughter, the tenderness, or even the bittersweetness those images bring back. Every picture is more than ink on paper or pixels on a screen—it’s a reminder that moments, once gone, can still live on when we choose to remember them.
Toward the Light
October 11,2025
They say you only get one soul dog in your lifetime — one who understands you without words, whose presence fills the quiet in a way nothing else can. Roscoe was mine.
I took this photo a year before he left my world. At the time, I didn’t think much beyond the beauty of the light — how it touched the water, how he walked through it like he belonged there. I didn’t realize what it would come to mean.
When I found it again recently, something in me paused. I saw more than a dog in the distance — I saw a moment I hadn’t been ready to understand. Roscoe wasn’t standing in the light… he was walking toward it.
I stripped the color away because when he left, it felt like the light left my world too. The black and white felt truer — quieter, more honest. It isn’t a sad image to me now, though. It’s peaceful. It reminds me that love doesn’t fade; it just changes shape.
Some photographs freeze time.
This one reminds me that time never really ends — not for the souls we carry with us.
🖤 //