Featured Work
Morning Ritual
Willemstad, Curaçao, early morning. The sun climbs, stretching golden fingers across the turquoise walls of Otrobanda. A man waits for his ride, his cigarette a slow-burning companion. The world is still quiet—just the shuffle of flip-flops on stone, the hum of the waking city. He savors the cool air, knowing the heat will soon press down. For now, there’s still time.
Lexington Avenue in the snow—where New York doesn’t stop, just moves a little differently. The taxis still hustle, the sidewalks still buzz, and somewhere down there, someone’s grabbing a coffee to warm up. Winter in NYC isn’t a season; it’s an experience.
“Let’s Make Good Price”
The souks of Marrakech are a maze, alive with color, scent, and sound. Every turn reveals something new—brass lanterns gleaming in the sun, spices piled high like pyramids, leather slippers in every shade imaginable. But it’s not just the goods that make this place what it is—it’s the people. And then there’s him. The shopkeeper.
He sits across from his shop in the narrow street, reclined in his chair like a man with all the time in the world. His stall is somewhere behind him, tucked into the shadows of the medina, its treasures hidden from sight. He doesn’t need to call out or wave me over. Instead, he watches, arms crossed, expression unreadable. A man who has seen thousands like me pass through—some stopping, some glancing, some haggling with the bravado of seasoned traders, others folding under the weight of a well-placed sigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just waits. It’s a challenge, unspoken but clear. I take the bait.
“Nice shop,” I say.
He nods, one eyebrow barely lifting. “Yes.”
A pause. Then, the words I knew were coming, the invitation and negotiation wrapped into one perfect phrase: “Let’s make good price.”
And just like that, the game begins.
The Sentinel
Amalfi, Italy. The sun bore down as we climbed the winding stone pathways above the town, searching for the perfect view. And then, there it stood—an ancient umbrella pine, its branches stretching toward the Mediterranean sky. Less famous than the nearby Ravello tree, yet no less deserving of admiration. Beneath its shade, the sea breeze brushed our faces, carrying the scent of salt, lemons, and sun-warmed earth.