Much of my landscape photography is simply a reflex to changing light.  I situate myself and then wait until I feel that alluring proportion between what is revealed and obscured.    I usually take shot after shot, not quite clear of what I am seeing, only that something is there that I need to record.

I am not really sure if I have captured anything worth keeping until after I process it.  I finish my work when I become wary of tampering with what I have done.  At some point, to add or take away anything becomes somewhat disturbing.  I shy away, drawn to that stasis that repudiates any further impulse.  

My favourite shots are often ones that belatedly do not seem mine.  They stand on their own.  I am mystified that I actually took them.  They cause me to think:  how did that happen?  That is the question that exemplifies how I think about life.  How is it there, everywhere in everything?  From what comes the power of its presence?  

As to my part in it, I often think of myself as a misconception.  There is always something missing, an unspeakable piece embedded in a limited view.  The point, I often believe, is to make myself porous, to thin my boundaries, to remember that my skin is a permeable membrane through which flows the inside and outside like water mixing in the reversing of tides.  

Eventually I wish to transcend distinctions.  I sense that it is possible.  I have glimpsed it at times, that falling away which is the building of something, a maelstrom never quite formed, the perceptible ground for all that is not there.  

In my search, then, I am attracted to mud and slime, ripples and ruts, branches and tendrils, as well as rising fog and shifting mist, wavering surfaces and rushing liquid, shiny objects and still reflections, hazy light and lifting shadows, distant horizons and irregular but repetitive shapes, and, of course, the sinuous curvature of an eye, any eye, human or otherwise.  I track these momentary forms as I might beasts in flight, hunted creatures that know that their very existence depends on their not being seen.