In Pursuit of Stillness

From an early age, I have been drawn to the quiet—listening to the sound of wind through trees, the rustle of leaves, the hush of a horizon at rest. I often imagine the world as it might have sounded two centuries ago, when silence was not absence, but presence—an anchor in the midst of life’s chaos. That search for stillness has never left me; it has simply evolved, guiding my work behind the lens.

My years of service in the U.S. Navy refined my patience and sharpened my sense of observation. The military’s unyielding rhythm—where “on time” meant early and waiting was an art—taught me the discipline of anticipation and the value of meticulous preparation. Yet it was also a lesson in knowing when to let go of the plan and trust instinct. In Iraq, under an unpolluted desert night sky, I often looked upward, wondering if someone back home was seeing the same stars, and if they felt the same quiet pull.

Travel has deepened this perspective. In the sweeping landscapes of Iceland and Scotland, in the rugged coastlines of Maine, I’ve found places where land and sky converse in light and shadow, each moment a fleeting alignment of beauty and atmosphere. These are the moments I aim to transform into images—not as mere records, but as interpretations of how they made me feel.

When I photograph, I want viewers to stand where I stood in that instant, to feel the same awe, curiosity, and question: Is this really our world, or is it something more? My work is an ongoing journey toward stillness—seeking it in places I have yet to explore, and shaping it into something that might, even decades from now, speak of growth, risk, and the refusal to stop searching.