Before photography became the focus, it started with observation.

Growing up in Michigan, I was drawn to the quiet details most people move past—the way light falls across a building at the end of the day, stretching shadows into something almost architectural on their own. The stillness of early mornings before a city fully wakes. The texture of worn materials—concrete, glass, steel—each holding a kind of history that doesn’t need words to be understood.

Detroit, in particular, left a lasting impression. It’s a city that doesn’t hide its history—it wears it. You see it in the lines of its architecture, in the rhythm of movement through its streets, in the contrast between what’s been preserved and what’s been left behind. That honesty shaped how I began to see everything—not as perfect or imperfect, but as real.

I became aware of how quickly moments pass. A shift in light, a glance, a feeling tied to a specific place and time—there for a second, then gone. Photography wasn’t immediate—it evolved out of that awareness. What began as curiosity turned into a way of holding onto those moments, studying them, understanding why they mattered.

Over time, it became less about capturing what something looks like, and more about recognizing what it is before it disappears—and translating that into something lasting.