Why I Shoot

Those moments disappear almost as quickly as they happen.

I photograph people because sometimes a fraction of a second can tell you more about someone than a hundred posed photographs ever could.

I’m not interested in perfection. I’m interested in presence, in the way a person actually inhabits a moment. So I chase what the environment gives us: light, movement, water, skin, shadows.

What keeps me coming back is the people. The camera is really just an introduction, a reason to meet someone I’d never otherwise cross paths with, and to earn enough trust that they hand me something real. Then we both walk away with proof that this small, unrepeatable moment existed.

Sometimes the work is intimate. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s provocative. But nudity isn’t the point. The beach isn’t the point. Even the photograph isn’t really the point. The person is.

For a moment, I get to see someone exactly as she is, or maybe as she hasn’t seen herself before. And this time, the moment doesn’t disappear.

That’s why I shoot.

Photography has never been the easy part of my life. It has existed alongside a career, a family, and everything else that competes for time. There have been stretches where I barely picked up the camera, times I questioned whether any of it mattered, and moments I measured my work against people much further along than me.

But I always came back to the camera. At some point I realized the coming back was the answer.

Becoming a father changed my relationship with time. You become painfully aware of how quickly life moves. Maybe that’s why this means even more to me now. It’s the closest thing I’ve found to holding on.

I’m not interested in perfection. I’m interested in presence.

People often ask me where the panda came from. The truth is it didn’t start with a panda. It started with people.

When I first photographed friends, they shared things they hadn’t said out loud often. The desire to feel confident, feminine, expressive. And the fear of criticism. I wanted to understand that. So I brought masks into shoots, not to hide someone, but to remove the weight of being recognized.

The shift was immediate. Anonymity dissolved hesitation. People laughed, moved differently, breathed. Whether they were clothed or not, it was never about nudity. It was about freedom.

Watching someone arrive guarded and leave standing taller is one of the greatest things I’ve ever experienced.

Over time, the masks turned into one mask. The panda. It became a symbol of trust and freedom. And it’s personal. I’m mixed race, Black, European, and Chinese, and I’ve always been drawn to the balance of black and white, gentle and strong. The panda felt familiar.

Photography is how I protect moments that disappear. A look, a breath, a version of someone that exists for just a second. That’s why I shoot.