Before I tell anyone where one of my images was taken, I always ask them the same question first.
What do you see?
Not what do you think it is. Not can you guess the location. Just — what do you see? What does it make you feel?
The answers never fail to fascinate me. People see forests in city windows. They see faces in patterns of light. They find calm in what was, to me, the chaos of a busy street. Sometimes someone’s interpretation is so far from my own that I stop and look at the image again with entirely new eyes.
That’s exactly what I want abstract photography to do.
Abstract art has always been about openness. It doesn’t demand a correct answer. It doesn’t reward the person who identifies the subject quickest. Instead, it invites you to bring something of yourself into the experience. Your mood that day, your memories, the things you love or fear — all of it can shape what you see.
I think this is why abstract photography feels so personal to people. When a viewer connects with an image, it’s not just because they find it beautiful. It’s because they found something of themselves inside it. That connection is deeply meaningful to me.
It also means that my work lives differently in different hands. The same photograph on your wall might feel energetic and bold to you, and calm and dreamy to a friend. Neither of you is wrong. In fact, that range of feeling is proof that the image is doing what it should.
I never try to explain too much. I don’t write long captions or offer detailed explanations of what inspired an image before someone has had the chance to experience it for themselves. The conversation — the difference between what I intended and what you discover — is part of the artwork itself.
So if you ever find yourself standing in front of one of my photographs wondering what it is, just sit with that question for a moment. Whatever comes to mind is the right answer.
At least, it’s yours. And that’s what matters most.