For years, attention gravitated toward sweeping vistas and wholesome portraits, rather than the wonders hidden within them—perhaps a legacy of evolution?

Returning to photography revealed a habit of capturing at speed, without always registering the delicate parts within.

Gradually, the dark room prompted the question: Why did the whole feel incomplete? Why did it seem capable of so much more?

The intricate lacing, the morning light weaving through, the mottled plumage probing tidal pools.

Textures, colours, and patterns began to stand out. Often, the parts emerged stronger than the whole.

Then selecting a frame became a more conscious choice: the curve of a rock half-buried at low tide; a single wave crest glowing at sunrise; the fractured patterns of stone; the blue streaks in age-old Arctic ice.

Abstraction thrives on feeling rather than documentation.

Now pause—let's unsee the forest for the trees.

There’s movement and so many shades of black. Then an unexpected shaft of golden light pierces through. Maybe, if the time and place are right, if you’ve been patient and you’re lucky, there's the soft gradient of colours and textures where sky and sea commune in a silent dialogue of calm and anticipation. Unforgettable.

Patience deepens presence. Moments stretch into discoveries. The spiral grace of light, colour, or cracks suggests invisible forces at work. The familiar dissolves into the enigmatic.

Aren’t we lucky to be alive and see?

Abstraction emerges not from detachment but from closer engagement with each fragment’s distinct voice.

Aren’t we lucky to be aware and hear?

Red spills on the ground— another drawn, not your own. Your dawn rises alone