I have been photographing for more than thirty years. For me, photography is a way of tracing the unstable threshold between what is seen and what is felt. My work often begins not from certainty, but from hesitation—moments in which a place begins to lose its solidity, a figure becomes a trace, or an object shifts into something symbolic and unresolved. In black and white, I am drawn to boundary, interval, and detail; in color, I seek blur, omission, and the sensory drift that emerges before language can stabilize meaning. Rather than producing descriptive images, I am interested in images that remain slightly open—images that do not insist, but continue to resonate through distance, ambiguity, and incomplete recognition. Beginning last year, when I started submitting my work to photography awards, I also began building photographic series in earnest. Since then, I have become increasingly drawn to the force and resonance that a series can hold. What once felt awkward—the connection between one image and the next—has gradually begun to feel like learning a language, as if each image were slowly teaching me how to read the one that follows.