#photography

Thank you for the kindness. It’s a different mindset, searching for the tension in color.

Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed. The shipyard changed and the frame shifted. And still, something carries forward, over the water. I wonder, will this space find a new rhythm, and another way to bridge the gap.

Perhaps this challenge is part of what keeps the process alive. Reflecting on new perspectives disturbs old habits, inviting another way of seeing what was always there. In these crossings, between direction and form, the narrative quietly continues.

For years, I have worked almost entirely in the vertical. It has shaped how I see and informs a narrative. Turning the frame sideways feels like unlearning a language. The tension shifts, and balance begins to ask a different why.

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge.
Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat.
Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.
- Kamand Kojouri

It reminds me that the work is not only about structure but connection. A bridge, like a frame, invites passage of the heart.

While editing, I’ve been curious about how the shapes of bridges inform silent transitions. They carry our weight and connections, yet always steadfast and grounded. Maybe a frame can act in the same way, bridging the past with the present.

The tension of the moment sits closer to the surface, raising the question of whether proximity sharpens truth or distance clarifies it. In both cases, time becomes the quiet unifier, binding the act of capture with the act of reflection.

For seven years I kept a one‑year pause between photographing and developing. It began as an exercise in patience, a way to see with clearer eyes. That rhythm has shifted within our exploratory course at Oxford Brooks, where the process now unfolds within shorter phases.

«What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time.» — John Berger. This thought has stayed with me as I’ve worked to understand how time itself edits, removing what once felt urgent and revealing the core of what remains.

To both walk and look again is not to repeat. It is to listen more closely, attuned to the project, and to see how the anchor continues to shape understanding of the world we live in and the passage of our time within it.

Dorothea Lange once asked Ralph Gibson, “What is your point of departure?” That question stayed with him. The anchor sharpens this departure, steadying fragments of discovery into dialogue.

Searching for reflections and layers, folding time into the surface of the image. What was once only an observation becomes a question of memory, of how distance, light, and change alter meaning with each return.

These early images hold the weight of beginnings. They recall the first walks, without an anchor, when seeing was uncertain and each pause offered a new way to understand both space and self.