Seeing What’s Fleeting

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to capturing moments.
As a kid, I always had a camera in hand — and when my grandfather let me use his old film reel video camera, I was hooked. Even then, I wanted to preserve memories, not just for myself but for others. Something about freezing a moment in time felt important — almost like a duty.

That instinct stayed with me through every chapter of life.
I carried a camera on deployments, too. The photos weren’t remarkable, but they mattered. I’d find myself pausing to photograph a sunset in Iraq or a sunrise in Afghanistan — both hauntingly beautiful places if you could, for a moment, look past the horrors of war. Those images were reminders that even in conflict, beauty still existed — fragile, but real.

In the years since, I’ve continued working as an independent consultant for the United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM), but I’ve given more of myself to photography and videography. For the longest time, it was a quiet hobby, something personal and restorative. Only recently have I felt that my work has matured — that when I print a photograph on the right paper and place it under the right light, it feels… right. Balanced. Whole.

I photograph because moments of beauty are constantly appearing and disappearing around us.
The sunrise at the beach shifts by the second. The tide rises and falls without hesitation. Clouds, shadows, and textures — brick, sand, and water — all move in rhythm with the sun and the moon.

These changes happen constantly, often unnoticed.
But once in a while, light and landscape meet in a way that feels extraordinary — and brief.

To me, photography isn’t about control or perfection. It’s about being present enough to see what’s there — not what I want it to be. The camera is just a tool for paying attention, a way of honoring the beauty that exists in a single passing instant.

I often think of my work as quiet service.
During my years in the Army, I learned the value of focus, patience, and awareness — skills that, at the time, had nothing to do with art. Yet they’ve become essential now. These days, that same focus is directed not toward chaos, but toward stillness, light, and peace.

Sharing that stillness gives me a sense of purpose.
The world holds so much fleeting beauty — to capture and share even a small part of it feels like a responsibility, a way to connect with others who may never stand in the same place, under the same light, at the same moment in time.

In that same spirit of connection and responsibility, a portion of profits from my work supports the Green Beret Foundation, which provides assistance to those who continue to serve and their families. Continuing service through art feels like a natural extension of my past — a quiet way to give back to the community that shaped me.

Maybe that’s what draws me to photograph the places I do: not to show what I’ve seen, but to remind others that beauty is still here, even when we’re too busy to notice.