My interest in art is driven by my compulsion to find something more subtle, more delicate, and more realistic than a glossy, commercialized presentation of love. My approach is to use photography as a vehicle to reflect the things I love in a direct way. The kind of photography I am after requires honesty, vulnerability, and tenderness.

As an artist, I am not facilitating creation--the world is already filled with light. It becomes my goal, then, to refract a part of that light and capture a piece of the world. A photographer needs to listen to the little voices of his environment and collect fragments so, at some point, these fragments string together to form an abstracted narrative. The world cannot take a self-portrait, but since it is worth being captured, I act as a documenter. A visual poet does not need a grandiose theme or an agenda, but should try to translate his surroundings into something transparent. I act as a prism and use the light to form something tangible, less fleeting, and less hectic.

When I take a photo, it might be motivated by the aesthetic of the subject, but honestly, I am trying to capture the manner in which the light lays, how it bathes you, and how it makes the world glow in different ways.  I do not have an agenda, I simply love what I see.  I am not trying to find something specific or create something new, I am just trying to catch the moments that I love.  My creative process is compulsory, and obsessive because I am always on the verge of missing what I am after.  I suffer during the split second delay the camera takes to click.  Photographs always come too late.

The truth is, once a photo is viewable, the scene is already missing from the world. We are still drawn to them as objects of the present, or as a future that we strive for. They become a beacon. We try to remember a person or place that is completely gone by putting it in our hands as something still available, still potential.

When I take a picture, I can observe that light but cannot touch it. There is an absolute distance between what I am doing and what I see. I cannot hold the moment because the moment is gone. I cannot stop muscles from moving. I cannot hold the light in place. I cannot stop the wind or the world. I cannot shift things back. I cannot stop time. I cannot even catch it fast enough, but I cannot stop trying to. My awareness of the futility and impermanence of what I love has me by the throat--it gets a hold of me and never lets up. I feel like I have a fever: I can still hear the little voices that compel me to keep trying.

It never stops. My photographs just reinforce the absolute distance, and what I have already lost.