Are We Weighing the Right Things?

We trust the scale. It doesn’t lie. It gives us a clear answer and we believe it. One side is more important, more "right".

It’s easy to mistake precision for truth but unfortunately that’s just blind trust.

Not Quite a Memory

There are images I make that feel like memories.
Maybe it’s the way the light wraps.
Maybe it’s the nostalgia that doesn’t point to anything specific.

I like to chase feeling.
I want an image to speak, not explain.

The soft warmth of a fading sun. Gentle,
powerful in its stillness.
It feels like a memory I never lived, but somehow still miss.

There’s this thread of nostalgia,
a longing that finds its way into many of my favorite photographs,
mine or someone else's.

I don’t always know what an image means when I make it.
But I do know when it feels right.

This Work Wants Blood

Tension ... not harmony. That push that always ends with a shove. The "what is expected" that is crushed by the extraordinary. It is contrast that sharpens perception. It is conflict that clarifies ideas. It is in tension where strong emotions surface. It's ironic that I often fight against these forces. They're damn taxing. I, like most everyone else, want peace, love, and understanding.

Tension. Contrast. Conflict ... They're the most demanding creative tools we have. Use them.

Wait... What?

It's funny how quickly we decide what we're looking at. In a split second, and bam, we've got it all figured out. Our brain works like that – it tells a story before we even realize it.

But once in a while, something breaks. A detail doesn't fit. You stop, look again, and the whole thing comes apart. What you thought you knew, what had seemed so obvious, was not quite true at all.

I love that moment, the one where perception stumbles, when certainty gives way to curiosity. Because isn't that where all the best things happen? In that little gap between assumption and understanding?

It's the same with imagery, storytelling, and branding. We think we know what we're looking at – until something unexpected makes us stop. The best visuals don't just confirm what we already believe; they make us question, reconsider, dig a little deeper.

And in a world where attention flickers like a weak lightbulb, that moment of pause – that delicious, fleeting uncertainty – is everything!

Some images don't just sit on a page or screen; they assert themselves. They bypass logic and go straight to instinct. They linger. This photograph is one of them. A face, undeniably present, with features that stand out vividly, isolated from skin, shadow, or depth. The subject is a person but this is not a portrait. It's something bigger; it's a symbol. This is the visual language of influence. Of power. Of control.

A martini is never just a drink. It’s a ritual, a statement. It carries the weight of old stories and unspoken invitations, whispered between sips in dimly lit lounges. It belongs to both the moment you’re in and the one you’re dreaming of.

A martini demands presence. It asks you to slow down, savor, exist fully in the now—even as it tugs at the edges of elsewhere. Maybe it’s the shadowed corner of a beloved bar, where time feels slower. Maybe it’s a city you’ve yet to visit, a table set with anticipation. Either way, it holds you in that in-between space, where nostalgia and possibility blur.

That’s the feeling I wanted to capture in this image.

Photography, much like a well-made cocktail, is about balance—light and shadow, warmth and contrast, clarity and mystery. It’s about holding stillness, even as something stirs beneath the surface.

Next time you find yourself in a dimly lit bar, pause. Let the moment settle. Feel the weight of the glass in your hand, the glow of the room around you.

That’s the beauty of a great martini. That’s the beauty of the space between.

Some shots go exactly as planned. This one… decided to take a detour through another dimension.

The film jammed. The strobe misfired. Technically, a mistake. But what I got instead? A scene straight out of some long-lost ‘60s sci-fi flick. Barbarella meets a rock-and-roll fever dream.

Des De Leon, singer for the SF Bay Area band Julie Plug, standing in her own shadow, ray gun locked on some unseen cosmic threat. Her sequins catching just enough light to look like she’s mid-teleport. A space-age heroine caught between realities, mid-battle, mid-guitar solo, mid-who even knows?

I set out to take a band promo shot. The universe decided to give me a movie poster instead. And honestly? I’m not mad about it.

Elegance of the Unseen

Some photographs reveal everything. Others, like this one, conceal just enough to make you wonder.

She stands caught between worlds—between presence and absence. A woman draped in black lace, poised just before stepping into the ballroom, where she’ll glide down the runway. But here, in this quiet space before the spectacle, she exists in a different kind of spotlight.

It carries the essence of an era long past—soft, imperfect, ephemeral. The woman turns away, half-fading into the light. The anticipation is almost tangible. Light spills across the wall beside her, illuminating her form in a fleeting glow, while shadows pull at the edges of the frame. The lace of her gown cascades to the floor, its intricate patterns mirrored in the carpet beneath her feet, blurring the line between presence and absence.

The dress, an early design by Michael Costello, hints at the silhouette that would later grace Beyoncé at the 2014 Grammys. But here, in monochrome warmth, it exists outside of time—detached from celebrity, from occasion, from definition.

What I love about this image is the tension it holds. The sense of something about to happen. A step forward. A glance back. A moment suspended in its own quiet drama.

Some might see a model, waiting for her cue. Others might see something else entirely.

There's something slippery about music. It only exists in the exact moment you hear it: a note played, a voice lifted, a melody threading through the air before vanishing into silence. You can't press pause and hold onto it the way you can with a photograph or a painting. Sure, you can replay a song, but it's never quite the same. The moment has already moved on.

And yet, here is a photograph of music.

I shot this years ago for an editorial piece about music and the internet, but even then, I knew it wasn't just about that. It's lingered with me, untethered, never quite settling into a single story. It's bold. It's powerful. And, like a half-remembered song, it's just elusive enough to keep pulling me back.

The image itself is only a fragment, a glimpse: the curve of her chin, lips slightly parted, caught mid-note, or maybe mid-breath. The microphone in front of her, all vintage curves and quiet authority, feels like it belongs to another era, while the electric pink background hums with something undeniably modern. Pop music, maybe, but the longing in her expression hints at something deeper.

I never gave this image a title, and maybe that’s because it doesn’t want one. Like music, it resists being pinned down. Sometimes, what we can’t hear is just as powerful as what we can.

So, I'm curious: What do you hear when you look at this image? What would you call it?

This is a Portrait of an Old Friend of Mine

In the top floor of a damp old warehouse along Seattle's waterfront, the fall of 1983 was alive with sound. The air buzzed as Rick Parashar sat behind the keys, his brother Raj humming while searching for the perfect melody, Colin on guitar, and Ben on bass. These guys had been playing together for nearly a decade—since middle school—and I was stepping into their territory. Little did I know that this audition to be their drummer for "Fire and Faster" would catapult me into the orbit of one of the most creative souls I’d ever encounter.

Rick helped define the grunge sound. He crafted records that weren’t just multi-platinum hits but cultural icons. From Pearl Jam’s "Ten" to Alice in Chains’ "Sap", and my personal favorite, "Temple of the Dog," Rick helped transform the raw angst of Seattle into anthems that resonated across the globe. He molded something enduring—something that connected generations.

Sadly, Rick passed away suddenly in the late summer of 2014. He was an artist in the truest sense, and his medium was music. It was tragic and shocking—he was so young, barely 50 years old. There are days when I miss him deeply.

Producers like Rick are rarely acknowledged; their names are often tucked away in liner notes. Yet their influence is everywhere—in the songs that become the soundtracks to our lives, in the memories those melodies stir, and in the creative risks they inspire.

Take a moment to honor the friends and mentors whose lives and work have profoundly shaped us. Share their stories. Keep their legacies alive.

Sometimes, the smallest moments end up shaping your whole life.

A while back—actually, a long while back—I was handed what every photographer dreams of: a once-in-a-lifetime assignment from Victor Zaud. Victor was part of the team creating the first website for the breathtaking Post Ranch Inn, and they needed photography that truly captured its essence.

This wasn’t just any assignment. It was three unforgettable days and nights at the Post Ranch Inn, all expenses paid. My only job? To come back with photos that told the story of what it feels like to be there.

I shot a lot of film during those three days. The property, perched high above the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur, California, is a photographer’s paradise. While I had many strong contenders for the final shots, these two images have always stood out as my personal favorites:

- The first, a delicate flower floating serenely in a dark bowl, speaks to the inn’s quiet luxury and harmonious connection to nature.

- The second, an earthy, textured object bathed in soft light, hints at the understated beauty of their handcrafted decor and the tactile sense of place you experience when visiting.

What’s striking about these images is that they don’t showcase the obvious—no sweeping views, no architectural marvels, no gourmet meals. And yet, for me, they feel like Post Ranch Inn. They evoke its atmosphere: serene, grounded, and utterly unique.

I hope these photos resonate with you the way they do with me. If you’ve been to Post Ranch Inn, perhaps they’ll bring back memories. If not, perhaps they’ll stir a desire to experience it for yourself.

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Why Photography Matters

Photographs have a way of distilling a feeling or a memory into something tangible. As a commercial photographer, my goal isn’t just take a picture of your product—it’s to find .... that .... that thing. There are many ways to tell a great story. I like to tell them through photography.

In 2018, I began working with Red Wing Shoes on a project that showcases unique stories related to their footwear.

The "Red Wing Wall of Honor" project is an annual tribute to hardworking individuals who wear these shoes. Stories like John Rukavina's help bring this project to life. John, an iron worker, was part of the team that installed the original antennas on the Hancock Building and Sears Tower. His boots, along with many others, tell tales of remarkable endeavors.

While photographing the footwear worn by these unsung heroes of the trades, I focus on showcasing the grit and determination evident in each pair. All these shoes, including John's, represent hard work and significant achievements.

Check out the "Red Wing Wall of Honor" project. It's about more than just shoes; it's about the people and their extraordinary experiences.

May the holiday season be filled with love, laughter, unexpected blessings, and heartfelt feelings for you, your friends, and your loved ones. Give a cheer for the upcoming new year. Let's fill it with exploits, escapades, opportunities, challenges, and adventures!

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!