“I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.”
For me, photography is poetry without words. Each frame is a stanza, an intimate story stitched from light, shadow, and silence.
My journey began on Christmas morning, 1979, when a Kodak Instamatic landed in my small hands. At five, with a lisp and a desire to express what words couldn’t carry, I turned to images. The disposable flash cubes rotated, and with them, I found my first language of joy, longing, and quiet melancholy. Even those early pictures pulse with the wonder of a child reaching for meaning.
Today, my lens wanders across portraiture, idiosyncratic travelogues, urban blight, and the familiar solace of New England’s shores. But beneath every subject lies the same pursuit: to reveal the sublime details, the fragile beauty, and the humanity we carry in common.
I am still that child with a camera; only now, the vocabulary has deepened.