Photography
I spend as much time as I can behind the lens underwater; it’s where I feel like the world slows down enough to really see the details. Light behaves differently in water: it bends around scales and cliffs, dissolves into plankton clouds, and pulls strong shapes into soft gradients. I try to capture wildlife in moments of motion or character, whether it’s a curious fish leaning into the dome port or a manta ray suspended in blue water. These places are both ecosystems and atmospheres: reefs become sculptures, schools of fish become choreography. Diving is part fieldwork, part art practice for me, and these images document the way ocean life feels when you’re inside it instead of looking at it.
On land, my camera becomes a tool for noticing transitions. Capturing where wild spaces touch human ones, and where weather remakes a familiar place in minutes. I’m interested in atmosphere more than scenery: the weight of fog in a canyon, reflections in a window, tracks in sand that show where someone or something just was. The desert and coastline especially feel alive with geometry and story, and I love how light strips everything down to form. Many of these photos are from long hikes, research trips, or road-side pauses when the scene demanded to be documented. Rather than big vistas, I look for the textures and quiet arrangements that tell you what it was like to stand there.
I take portraits mostly of friends, labmates, and people met outdoors, often in the middle of doing something that makes them feel like themselves. I love when a portrait captures a real exchange rather than a pose: laughter between waves, someone thinking through a task, a glance that says more than words. The environment becomes part of the portrait too—cliffs, boats, and labs all showing the context of who they are. These images are memories of shared moments as much as photographs. To me, portraits are tiny stories about connection, and I hope each one keeps a little of the energy from when it was made.
Much of my scientific work involves organisms too small to see with the naked eye, parasites, larvae, and tiny crustaceans with entire worlds of structure hidden in their bodies. Through a microscope, biology becomes sculpture and pattern; a copepod’s limbs look like architecture and microbial textures can feel like distant landscapes. I enjoy capturing the points where science documentation slips into art, where the goal isn’t just to “show” a specimen, but to celebrate how bizarre and beautiful life really is. The microscope lets me explore new ways of seeing the animals I study every day, especially those that shape ecosystems from the shadows. These images blend research with curiosity, turning data into discovery.