Growing up in the wild north of England provides a contrast to the warm Pacific beauty of coastal California where I’ve lived for the past twelve years. Day by day I’ve driven along Highway 101, the founding path of modern California, I’ve thought of faraway home, its similarities and differences. The black and white post-industrial beauty of the north of England is here too, in disused gas/petrol stations, abandoned cars, concrete bridges, birds basking on the water with the lorries rolling by. It’s an ordinary, everyday side to California that lies unnoticed by the side of the road. Wherever I am I’ve always asked myself and those driving next to me the same question: do you know where you’re driving from, past, and towards?
I love how the textures and patterns of plants and botanicals come to life with the drama of light. Exploring new angles and chasing the setting sun inspire me. I strive to find illuminations in unexpected places so I can marvel at the puzzle pieces of nature.
All of the images in this collection were taken in my Mill Valley neighborhood and the Marin Art & Garden Center during the course of the Personal Project class from April to June 2026.
I am mesmerized by the world that comes into view through the macro lens of my camera. There is beauty and unexpected symmetry in the up-close details found in the pistils and stamens of flowers, the graceful curves of individual petals and in the delicate veins of leaves.
Most will agree that flowers in full bloom are beautiful. However, I find that botanical forms in various stages of transition are often more interesting and nuanced, as their tiny components take on a sculptural appearance, and often the overlooked details of their structure become more pronounced. As flowers fade from their former glory, they literally “go to seed” and the appearance of tiny seeds within a faded bloom evoke a sense of hope and renewal as we are reminded of the enduring cycle of life.
These photos were selected to showcase the loveliness of blossoms that are past their prime. Some of these flowers have been pressed between two pages and thus preserved, their intricate details clearer and more pronounced than when they were at their peak, while others have simply aged and withered naturally. And several have already entered the seed-producing stages of their life cycle. These compositions range from loose and organic, to more artfully composed, all with the intent of showcasing the unique and striking beauty of faded blooms.
Contained is a series about the different ways we hold things. Some of these containers protect, some move materials from one place to another, and some are meant to keep things organized or out of sight. I photographed everyday structures like tanks, shipping containers, bee boxes, dumpsters, crates, and fenced enclosures because they all serve the same basic purpose: they contain something.
Even though what’s inside often isn’t visible, each image hints at its contents through context and use. Together, the photographs show how common these systems are in our daily lives and how much of the built environment is designed around storing, separating, or transporting the things we depend on.
In October 2024, I made a portrait during a studio assignment with my instructor, Stuart Schwartz, at The Image Flow that completely changed the direction of my photography. My camera was tethered to a computer, and as the image appeared on the monitor, I was stunned. My subject was equally speechless. For the first time, I had created a portrait that felt beyond anything I believed I was capable of making. It wasn’t simply a technically accomplished photograph—it revealed mood, character, and emotion in a way I had never experienced before. I left the studio that day inspired, exhilarated, and determined to understand not just how to shape light, but why that single photograph had moved me so deeply.
That experience led me to make an intentional choice the following spring at The Image Flow. Rather than relying on multiple lights, I committed to working with a single off-camera flash. Limiting myself to one light forced me to slow down and truly study it—its power, how it falls across a face, creates depth, reveals texture, and shapes emotion. I wanted to train my eye instead of depending on more equipment.
The technical challenge soon became a personal one. Every portrait required finding willing subjects, coordinating schedules, choosing and transporting lighting equipment, setting up on location, caring for my subject, creating the portrait, and then beginning a second creative process: developing the image in Lightroom Classic, a program I was learning simultaneously. More difficult than any of the technical hurdles, however, was learning to quiet the voice of self-doubt. I often compared my work to that of my classmates and questioned whether I belonged in the room. Yet each time, I chose to show up anyway.
These photographs aren’t proof that I’ve mastered anything. They’re proof that I kept working the light instead of walking away from it—choosing one flash over three, staying past the moment I wanted to quit, showing up in rooms where I doubted I belonged. If they say anything about me, it’s that I chose curiosity over certainty, again and again.
I don’t look at this body of work and see a finished photographer. I see someone who is still learning how to see—how light falls, how a face holds a feeling, how to trust an instinct before I fully understand it. Every photograph since that October afternoon has been an attempt to find that same moment again: the one where the person in front of me and the person watching the monitor were both, briefly, speechless. I’m still chasing it.
