There are stories we find, and stories we make.
For much of my work, the story has emerged through a calculated and often years-long mix of planning and waiting. I might begin with an idea, but I’m also responding to what already exists: a place, an animal, a person, or a certain light at a specific time of year. The final image comes from recognizing when those elements align, and being at the right place at the right time.
This time, the process was different.
With Reverie and Shape of Dreams, I began with a feeling and built a story around it.
Instead of searching for that story in the world, I set out to create the world it needed.
I knew the feeling I wanted to create. As adults, we rarely get to wonder- to lose ourselves in imagination the way we once did- and I wanted my images to return that experience to the viewer. I built toward it through a kind of idealized beauty: a timeless quality, stripped of specifics, that leaves enough open space to sink into.
To do this, I approached the work as a director would, imagining the scene and then choosing each element for the role it would play. Everything- from the rider and the horse to the position of each figure- was selected to contribute something different to the mood, the atmosphere, and the series at large.
A painter composing a still life works in much the same way. The objects may be familiar- a vessel, a flower, a piece of fruit- but none is there by accident. Each is chosen for its shape, color, texture, and, often, its symbolic meaning. The painter decides where it belongs, how the light meets it, and what kind of tension or harmony it creates beside the other forms. That was my approach to these new series.
In an image like “Desert Reverie,” (below, left) the horses and riders provide a visual anchor within the vastness of the dunes, giving structure to an otherwise nearly abstract landscape. In another, like “Becoming,” (below, right) the figure and backdrop offer texture, a sense of place, and softness, but remain quiet and give the rest of the image room to speak.
Together, those choices create an expansion of the visual language I’ve dedicated my career to thus far. The resulting images sit somewhere between the familiar and the imagined, or a dream and reality. The subjects are real and tangible, but their arrangement invites you to pause, look more closely, and wonder what has led to this moment, or what might come next.
That sense of possibility is central to these works. They aren’t an escape from reality so much as an invitation to look beyond what is immediately visible. Both Reverie and Shape of Dreams resist being consumed quickly, instead offering you a space of your own for quiet contemplation.
There's a paradox in working this way that I've come to love. I may have exercised more control over the making of these images than I have in much of my previous work, yet the finished photographs deliberately leave more unresolved. I can choose the characters, the landscape, the light, and the composition, but where the story ultimately leads is not for me to decide.
That part belongs to you.