Photography has been for me an exercise of instinct. I follow what draws my eye so that I can discern why I like what I like, and through that, compose who I am becoming (always in progress). My writing then follows. Being a visual thinker, images and aesthetics are at the forefront of my practice.

This practice has been meditative. It’s been a journey into my own personal history – a childhood that was feverishly documented by a set of parents who both loved to take photographs, videos, and recordings in order to create stories to build the worlds that they wanted to live in. Photos from my childhood read like myths: legends made of curated facts that needn’t be true, but are nevertheless powerful. Sometimes I can barely remember where certain photos come from, but the feelings that they evoke, of how my mother wanted our family to fit the picture perfect ideal that she had dreamed, they still emanate from the glossy photo paper.

A year ago, whilst clearing out my childhood belongings, I found a large trunk full of various kinds of cameras that I had been gifted and acquired over the years. I had inherited the practices of my parents and hadn’t realised it. Soon after, I went out and bought another camera – my own, purchased with money that I had earned, for some of my own mythmaking.


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