The way sunlight hits the office buildings downtown always catches me off guard. There's something almost cathedral-like about it, the way the light streams through and creates these perfect golden rectangles on the sidewalk. I waited for about twenty minutes to catch this particular angle, watching people walk through the light without noticing it.
Everything doubles after a rainstorm. The street becomes a mirror, and suddenly you're walking through two cities at once. I love how the reflections aren't quite perfect - they waver and shift, making the solid world feel a little more fluid. This was taken on Broadway, right after a summer thunderstorm.
There's a rhythm to the city at rush hour that you can almost hear. Red lights and white lights streaming past, everyone heading somewhere important. I set up the camera on a bridge and let it capture the flow for thirty seconds. What you get is the city's heartbeat made visible.
Marie has been making bread for forty years. Her hands know the dough better than most people know their own names. Every line and callus tells the story of countless loaves, of early mornings and the simple satisfaction of feeding people. Sometimes the most beautiful portraits don't show faces at all.
She was reading a letter, completely absorbed in whatever news it contained. The morning light was soft and warm, and for just a moment, the busy street corner felt like the most peaceful place in the world. I love these in-between moments when people forget they're in public and just exist.
Grandma teaching her granddaughter to knit on the front porch. The same hands that learned this skill seventy years ago, now passing it on. There's something magical about watching knowledge travel from one generation to the next, especially the kind of knowledge that lives in your fingers.
These trees were here long before any of us, and they'll be here long after. Standing among them feels like visiting a library where all the books are written in a language you're still learning. The light filters down in columns, and everything feels hushed and sacred.
Fresh water and salt water, meeting and mixing in patterns that change with every tide. I come here when I need to remember that some things are bigger than whatever I'm worried about. The rocks have been shaped by this meeting for thousands of years, smooth and patient.
The lake at dawn, when the mist is still rising and the world feels soft around the edges. Everything is quiet except for the occasional fish jumping, sending perfect circles across the water. These are the moments that make getting up early worth it.
The way steam rises from a cup of coffee in the morning light. Such a simple thing, but it holds the promise of the day ahead. I caught this in my kitchen window, where the light is just right for about ten minutes each morning if you're paying attention.
The afternoon sun coming through the fence, creating these beautiful geometric shadows on the sidewalk. I walked past this spot every day for months before I really saw it. Sometimes the most interesting photographs are hiding in plain sight, waiting for the right light.
A kid's paper airplane caught in a tree, fluttering in the breeze. It made me think about all the small hopes we send out into the world, not knowing where they'll land. Sometimes they get stuck, but sometimes they soar further than we ever imagined.