Most of my work begins in places people walk past every day.
City streets, office buildings, windows, reflections — spaces that are often dismissed as boring or ugly. I’ll stand still and watch people rush by, eyes fixed on their phones, unaware of how much visual beauty they’re missing.
I don’t see my role as inventing something new. I see it as noticing what’s already there.
When something catches my eye, it’s usually because of the way light is moving, or how colours interact, or how reflections overlap. My mind immediately starts to see something else within it — something abstract. From there, the camera becomes a way of translating what I’m already seeing in my head.
This process takes time. I’ll walk around, test angles, wait for the light to shift, and watch how reflections change. Sometimes everything aligns for just a brief moment. Sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. That unpredictability is part of what makes the final image special — it can never be recreated in exactly the same way.
People often tell me how colourful or beautiful my work feels, and they’re surprised when I explain that it was photographed in an area they pass through every day. That’s always my quiet hope: that someone leaves my work seeing their surroundings differently.
If we all slowed down just a little, there’s so much beauty hiding in plain sight.