Q: Your work often begins with a photograph from your travels. How do you choose which moments or places to transform into art, and what draws you to a particular scene?

A: I don’t always know in the moment which photograph will eventually become art — it usually starts with a feeling more than anything else. When I travel, I take thousands of shots, but certain ones just stay with me. Sometimes it’s something big and obvious, like the way a crowd moves through a famous crossing, or the way the sun sets over the water. Other times, it’s something small and fleeting — the quiet corner of a market, a reflection in a window, or even the way a shadow falls across the street.

What draws me in is that sense of pause. If something makes me stop, even for a second, I know there’s more to it than meets the eye. Later, when I go back through my photos, those images stand out. They carry not just the record of a place, but also the memory of how it felt to be there. That’s when I start to transform the photograph — layering in color, light, and texture until it feels less like a snapshot and more like an experience. For me, the “right” scene is never about being perfect or polished. It’s about energy, mood, and emotion. I’m not just documenting where I’ve been. I’m capturing the feeling of the moment, so that when someone else looks at it, they’re transported too — they feel the rush, the calm, or the wonder that made me stop in the first place.

Q: You use digital tools to add layers of light, texture, and feeling. At what point in the process does an image shift from being about “place” to being about “emotion”?

A: That’s such an interesting question, because the shift doesn’t happen at one set point — it’s more like a conversation between me and the image. When I first take a photograph, it’s always rooted in place. I’m drawn to something specific — maybe the movement of a street in Tokyo, the way the light spills across a canal in Amsterdam, or a quiet corner in Paris that most people would walk right past. In those moments, I’m thinking about composition and capturing what’s in front of me. But once I sit down with the image and start working digitally, the transformation begins.

That’s when I layer in color, light, and texture. It’s no longer just about where I was — it’s about how it felt to stand there. The chaos of a crowd becomes about energy and individuality. A shadowy alley becomes about mystery and curiosity. A reflection on the water becomes about calm and stillness. The turning point comes when I stop seeing it as documentation of a place and start feeling it as a memory. That’s when the emotion takes over. Sometimes it happens quickly, other times it takes hours of experimenting until the image “tells me” what it wants to be.

I want someone looking at the finished piece to feel something, even if they’ve never been to that place. For me, that’s when a photograph stops being about geography and becomes about connection.

Q: You describe yourself as a storyteller with a camera. Could you elaborate on how narrative shapes your photographic choices before and during the process?

A: I’ve always thought of myself as a storyteller first and a photographer second. For me, the camera is just the beginning — it captures the raw material, but the story is what brings the image to life. When I’m out traveling with my camera, I’m not only looking for what’s visually striking. I’m watching for the details that hint at something deeper. It might be the way people move through a crowded street, how two strangers share a glance, or the stillness of a temple at sunrise. Each of those moments already carries a narrative, and my instinct is to catch it before it slips away.

Before I even press the shutter, I’m thinking about what that moment is saying. Is it about energy and movement? Quiet and reflection? Connection between people? Those questions shape which images I choose to capture and which ones I let pass by. Later, when I’m working digitally, the storytelling continues. I don’t just edit for color or clarity. I layer light, texture, and tone in ways that heighten the mood I want to share. A photograph of a crossing in Tokyo, for example, might start as pure chaos. But once I lean into the rhythm of the crowd, the image becomes less about disorder and more about individuality — every person with their own story, moving in their own direction.

In the end, my goal isn’t to tell my story alone. It’s to create art that opens space for someone else’s — to spark memories, emotions, or conversations that feel personal to them. That’s what storytelling through photography means to me.

Q: You emphasize creating art that evokes memories or forgotten feelings for viewers. Can you share a memorable interaction with someone who connected deeply with one of your pieces and how it impacted you as an artist?

A: One of the most memorable interactions I’ve had was with a woman who saw my piece Locks on the Bridge in Paris. It’s inspired by the Pont des Arts, where couples attach padlocks as a symbol of their love. She stood in front of it for the longest time, and when she finally turned to me, her eyes were filled with tears. She told me it brought back the memory of her husband, who had passed away a few years earlier. They had traveled to Paris together and placed a lock on that very bridge. She hadn’t thought about it in years, and suddenly the memory came rushing back. In that moment, it wasn’t about me or the photograph anymore — it was about her story, her love, her memory.

Watching her connect so deeply reminded me why I do this work. Art isn’t just about creating something pretty to hang on a wall; it’s about sparking something inside of people, sometimes even something they didn’t realize was still there. That encounter has stayed with me. It showed me that my art can go beyond my own travels and experiences — it can connect with someone else’s life in a way that’s personal to them. That’s a gift I don’t take lightly. Every time I create something new, I think about the possibility that it might touch someone like that again, and it pushes me to keep pouring myself into the work.

Q: Travel seems central to your inspiration. How does moving through different landscapes and cultures shape the way you see, experience and reimagine the world through your art?

A: Travel has always been at the heart of my inspiration. There’s something about stepping into a new place that makes you pay closer attention — the colors feel brighter, the sounds sharper, the little details stand out in ways they don’t when you’re home in your routine. I carry my camera everywhere, because I never know what will catch my eye: the energy of a busy street, the quiet rhythm of a market, or the way light hits a building at just the right angle. But it’s not only about seeing new places — it’s about feeling them.

Every city has its own pace and personality. Tokyo feels like movement and rhythm, while Paris feels like romance and nostalgia. When I bring those photographs back into my studio, I don’t just want to show where I’ve been. I want to translate the emotion of being there, so that someone else can feel it too. That’s where the digital layering comes in. Adding color, light, and texture lets me reimagine the scene, pulling out the mood that struck me in the moment.

A crossing filled with people might become less about chaos and more about individuality. A seaside town might feel less like geography and more like calm. Moving through different landscapes and cultures reminds me that there are endless ways of seeing the world. It keeps me curious, and it pushes me to notice the small things — the stories hiding in plain sight. In the end, that’s what I hope my art does: not just to show a place, but to invite someone to experience it in a way that feels personal and alive.

Q: Blending travel, narrative and fine art can be daunting. What guidance would you share with photographers and fine artists who aspire to merge these elements into a cohesive body of work?

A: Blending travel, storytelling, and fine art can feel overwhelming at first, but for me, it’s always come back to one thing: start with what matters to you. When I travel, I take thousands of photos, but not all of them are meant to become art. The ones I return to are the images that make me feel something — the ones that carry a story. Maybe it’s the chaos of a crossing in Tokyo, the romance of Paris, or the stillness of the ocean at sunrise. If it stirs something in you, chances are it will connect with someone else too. The next piece of advice I’d share is to give yourself permission to experiment.

Early on, I thought there was a “right” way to merge photography and art. But I realized the magic happens when you play — when you try layering textures, shifting colors, or pushing an image past reality until it feels like an experience instead of a snapshot. That’s where the narrative comes alive. It’s also important to remember that your story doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes it’s in the quiet details: the way light falls, the stillness of an alleyway, or a single person moving through a crowd.

Those little moments often carry the biggest emotions. Finally, stay true to your perspective. Travel shows us that there are endless ways to see the world, but your job as an artist is to filter those experiences through your own lens. Don’t chase trends or try to replicate someone else’s vision. Lean into your own curiosity and trust that your unique way of seeing will be what ties your work together.