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They tell me I was born on a snowy February day in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn—a little nook where my shoes still hang from electric lines and the aged paint of my graffiti can be glimpsed through time. I roamed the streets and foraged for fun. Some say I still do.
I canoed through public schools in New York and emerged with degrees in english and history. Then London, for another in philosophy and public policy. I loved university and wanted to stay forever, but reality intervened.
I worked at think tanks and universities, teaching myself to code, apply statistics, and design research methods.
While working full-time as a researcher, I founded a sustainable home goods brand. Inspired by Indian coconut coir mats, I designed eco-friendly doormats made by local artisans in Kochi, India. I sought suppliers who paid higher wages, manufactured by hand loom, and limited environmental impact.
I learned logistics, accounting, marketing, and management and just kept going.
I built it all out, stubbornly, completely. When things broke, I fixed them. When they broke again, I fixed them again. Amazon for sellers breaks a lot. This cycle was pulling me away from where I needed to go. Whether growing a business or sketching a research plan, the melody of creativity always rang clearer to me. Lost and uncertain, I looked up to the clouds and listened. The creative gods were calling out, but what were they offering?
I'd always enjoyed shooting photos and thinking visually in frames and motion, a real camera seemed like the obvious next step. That inexpensive, basic camera survived seven years of travel, through dust, rain, and my habit of using plastic bodega bags as protection.
Back in New York, I'd take a train far out into Queens or the Bronx and walk for hours, shooting on instinct. I did this again and again, taking thousands of terrible photos. I pestered better photographers with questions, watched them edit, and slowly the photos became less terrible.
Brooklyn. Queens. The Bronx. Walk far enough, and something opens.
Walking, paying attention, and shooting thousands of photos -
this is how I learned to see the frames of life.
Later, living in Mexico City, I fell in love with 35mm film photography. That city's light, shadow, and color were made for analog capture. Film demands intention; every frame costs something. A craftsperson with an old camera and minimal editing can still make timeless photographs.
And then there's the phone, the camera you carry without thinking about it. Everyone else scrolls; I shoot. If the device is going to dominate modern life, it might as well make something worth looking at. Turns out, pointing a camera at the world is a better use of the thing than most of what it was designed for.
I shoot both digital and analog, color and black-and-white, capturing daily repetitions, light and shadow, reflections and dualities.
I also photograph architecture, abstractions, fine art, conceptual, and landscape work.
I write photo essays, city essays, and travel observations.
I write about philosophy, psychology, history, and architecture.
I write criticism and musings on the odd habits witnessed during wandering.
This website archives my life's photographic work and writing. I add new work regularly.
