When I first arrived in New York in 1979, I embraced the daily chaos of the city. That energy eventually gave way to a visual curiosity about the slow transition from day to night—the unexpected stillness that blanketed the streets when the city paused, briefly. I carried a small tripod to locations with plenty of visible sky—Union Square, the Ferry Terminal, or the far West Side below 14th Street—to document the neighborhoods unvarnished as the evening rush began. Setting the camera straight-on and wide allowed me to look past the noise, slow down the frame, and immerse in the scene.

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My earliest photographs focused on the urban landscape at dusk. Later, I became drawn to the industrial geometry of factories, smokestacks, and steel girders along Manhattan's lower West Side and Long Island City, working away from the frenzied energy of midtown. I used the late-day light to flatten these heavy structures into clean, graphic shapes.

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When I moved away from the city, my location changed, but my strategy didn't. Inspired by the woods of the Northeast and the expansive horizons of the American West, I continue to trace overlooked patterns along the edges of nature. My recent work, Western Hills, focuses on distant horizons—where hills meet the sky or shorelines meet the sea. By distilling the landscape into simple outlines, vast expanses are framed as discrete bands of color: a natural evolution from my early urban work.