# ABOUT ME
I have been involved with cameras and photography for most of my working life. I have photographed professionally, worked as a camera technician and spent much of my career as a camera operator in Canada's film industry. But long before photography became a profession, I simply liked making pictures.
My photographs are very much about the places I have been. Travel took me to places I once only imagined seeing—across Asia, Europe, the Middle East and elsewhere—and taught me to look. The same things that attracted my attention on the other side of the world began appearing much closer to home: in Vancouver streets, forests, industrial landscapes, the people around me, or simply the moon through the cherry blossoms outside my front door.
A friend once told me, **“Photography is easy. Just make pretty pictures.”** I don't set out to make photographs about grand ideas. Something catches my eye—light, colour, a face, a landscape, an unexpected relationship between things— I make a picture.
Photography is life at 1/125th of a second: **one frame, one moment.** The decision to press the shutter often happens before I have consciously decided why. Looking back over a lifetime of photographs, I can now recognize some of the things that repeatedly caused me to make that decision: solitude, scale, beauty, humour, human endeavour, the passage of time and those brief moments when everything within the frame seems to belong there.
The lone figure appears often in my photographs. I don't necessarily see that person as the subject. It could be me, the viewer, or anyone who recognizes something of themselves within the frame. As I get older, I am increasingly aware that the landscapes, cities, temples and mountains I have photographed will continue without me. The photographs have become part observation and part memory—a record of places I inhabited, witnessed and, for a fraction of a second, belonged to.
These photographs are a collection of whimsical observations rather than concrete conclusions. Like all art, their meaning ultimately belongs to whoever is looking at them. If someone stops for a moment because a photograph reminds them of somewhere they have been, something they have felt, or simply because they think it is a pretty picture, that is enough for me.
.
I have been involved with cameras and photography for most of my working life. I have photographed professionally, worked as a camera technician and spent much of my career as a camera operator in Canada's film industry. But long before photography became a profession, I simply liked making pictures.
My photographs are very much about the places I have been. Travel took me to places I once only imagined seeing—across Asia, Europe, the Middle East and elsewhere—and taught me to look. The same things that attracted my attention on the other side of the world began appearing much closer to home: in Vancouver streets, forests, industrial landscapes, the people around me, or simply the moon through the cherry blossoms outside my front door.
A friend once told me, **“Photography is easy. Just make pretty pictures.”** I don't set out to make photographs about grand ideas. Something catches my eye—light, colour, a face, a landscape, an unexpected relationship between things— I make a picture.
Photography is life at 1/125th of a second: **one frame, one moment.** The decision to press the shutter often happens before I have consciously decided why. Looking back over a lifetime of photographs, I can now recognize some of the things that repeatedly caused me to make that decision: solitude, scale, beauty, humour, human endeavour, the passage of time and those brief moments when everything within the frame seems to belong there.
The lone figure appears often in my photographs. I don't necessarily see that person as the subject. It could be me, the viewer, or anyone who recognizes something of themselves within the frame. As I get older, I am increasingly aware that the landscapes, cities, temples and mountains I have photographed will continue without me. The photographs have become part observation and part memory—a record of places I inhabited, witnessed and, for a fraction of a second, belonged to.
These photographs are a collection of whimsical observations rather than concrete conclusions. Like all art, their meaning ultimately belongs to whoever is looking at them. If someone stops for a moment because a photograph reminds them of somewhere they have been, something they have felt, or simply because they think it is a pretty picture, that is enough for me.
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