I still remember the thrill of buying my first disposable camera — cheap plastic, a paper box, and a roll of 24 exposures that felt like treasure. Every click was a decision. There was no deleting, no trying again. I learned to look slowly. To frame carefully. I took photos of ordinary things: a glass of water on the kitchen table, the way sunlight folded across the floor. Those early still lifes taught me to see before I ever called myself a photographer.

My love for analog photography never left me. There's a quiet discipline to it — the weight of patience, the joy of uncertainty. Still, digital tools have widened my world. I now travel with a backpack full of cameras: old film bodies, mirrorless gear, and lately, a drone that lets me see from above what I used to only imagine.

I can spend hours chasing light, reworking a composition, waiting for the wind to still. I’m drawn to remote places — places that ask you to listen before they show you anything. That solitude sharpens the senses. It's where I do my best work.

Photography isn’t just about capturing what’s there — it’s about finding what hides in plain sight. A moment that would otherwise pass unnoticed. I don't take pictures to hold onto the world. I take them to better understand it.

This is my practice. My story. My quiet way of paying attention — and sharing the wonder I find with those who are willing to look a little longer.