Photography has an intriguing way of helping me make sense of life. It slows me down, forces me to look closer. The way light hits someone’s eyes, how shadows shape a face, the tiny details in moments we’d otherwise overlook—those things stick with you. They’re proof that our attention and memory are fragile, but they matter.
When I picked up the camera again in 2006, I got lost in the chase. I was too busy chasing the “right” gear or the “correct” techniques—even other people’s approval. I doubted my gut, avoiding styles that felt natural because I worried they’d seem gimmicky or underwhelming. Somewhere along the way, I forgot why I started taking photos as a teen in the ’80s: to just say something.
It took me years to remember what I’d learned back then. Photography isn’t just about rules. It’s about perspective. Slowing down. Noticing what resonates, even if you can’t explain why. What we shoot—and how we shoot it—says as much about us as the subject. The books we read, the music we play, the thoughts we linger on—they all leak into the frame.
That’s why I keep doing this. To freeze life’s quiet, fleeting stuff. To hold what time washes away. To see the world—and myself—a little clearer. There’s no trophy at the end. Just me, my camera, and the quiet rhythm of noticing.
Below are images from a recent stay in Mexico’s Mazahua region—fragments of moments shared, observed, and preserved.
