I came across this scene in a remote part of the California desert, a place that felt like it had been forgotten by time. The half-buried car struck me immediately—it was haunting yet oddly serene, almost as if it had settled into the landscape as naturally as a cactus or a rock. The muted tones and gentle play of the sand and rusted metal helped capture that melancholic stillness I was seeking.

There was an above-waist-height fence just below the shot that made it impossible to try more angles. I tried knocking on the owner's door, but no one answered. I spent quite a while debating whether to jump the fence. In the U.S., 'No Trespassing' signs are almost everywhere, so I knew it wasn’t the best idea. My camera setup is fairly involved, requiring a tripod and several bracketed shots, so it wasn’t a quick 'jump, shoot, and leave' situation. Still, I’d come all this way and felt compelled to try. I eventually climbed over and started setting up. But just as I was getting into position, a protective neighbour/caretaker drove by and asked why I was there. Not wanting to cause any trouble, I quickly decided to leave. It’s always a balancing act between getting the shot and respecting boundaries.

This image represents the core of Lost America—a meditation on forgotten places and how remnants of human existence are slowly reclaimed by nature. To me, it’s less about the car itself and more about the quiet stories it tells of abandonment and endurance.

This image speaks to the timelessness of abandonment and decay. The half-buried car is the most striking symbol of this—a once-functional object now rendered inert and seemingly absorbed into the desert itself. There’s no clear sense of when it was left here or why, which invites the viewer to imagine its history while simultaneously acknowledging the absence of any definitive answers.

What solidifies the lack of time’s presence is the way this scene refuses to offer context. This ambiguity strips away the constraints of chronology, leaving only the universal themes of isolation and impermanence. My images are also always void of people, even if there are signs of their existence.

I was born and raised in Bristol, England, and the visuals of North America have always been a major influence on my life. Growing up in a typical middle-class suburb during the ‘70s and ‘80s, I found my escape in television and film, most of which came from the USA. The vast, dramatic landscapes of North America felt like an exotic antidote to the familiar city suburbs and countryside of England.

As a keen illustrator, I would spend hours obsessing over the details of my subjects, striving to make my drawings as close to reality as possible—almost photographic, you could say. That passion for detail led me to enroll in college at a young age, where I studied graphic design and photography.

The American landscape has remained a major source of inspiration for my work, deeply rooted in my childhood memories. I’ve always admired the work of North American photographers from the ‘60s and ‘70s, who used large-format film to capture ordinary street scenes with extraordinary detail. Their meticulous approach resonated with me and ultimately influenced my process. I’ve since embraced a more modern approach, using a technical camera, digital back, and precision optics, to chart my own journey through the landscapes that have inspired me for so long.

North America has always fascinated me because of its vast landscapes and the layers of history embedded in its spaces. There’s a unique tension between the natural world and human intervention—places that were once bustling with life but now lie forgotten, slowly reclaimed by nature. That duality, especially in rural and suburban America, feels profoundly melancholic and compelling to me.

The journey of creating Lost America began with a desire to explore this quiet stillness in overlooked corners of the country. I gravitated towards backwater towns, detached suburbs, and remote desert stretches—places where time seems to have stalled. The process was both intuitive and deliberate. I spent hours driving through endless highways, guided as much by chance as by research, stopping whenever something resonated—a crumbling structure, a derelict vehicle, a hauntingly empty street.

What drew me most was how these landscapes evoke both familiarity and estrangement. The scenes feel like fragments of a shared cultural memory, yet they’re eerily disconnected from the present.

Lost America isn’t just about documenting these spaces—it’s about tapping into the emotions they evoke: nostalgia, melancholy, and a lingering sense of unease. It’s a meditation on what we leave behind and how those remnants become part of the landscape's enduring narrative.

As for travel, interestingly, I do far more driving in the US than I ever do at home in Melbourne, where I’ve lived since 2006. I’m based right in the heart of the city and rarely need a car. However, when I head to the States, it’s a completely different story. After a 16+ hour flight, I’ll go straight from the airport to pick up a rental car—usually a truck or SUV with off-road tires if I can find one. I’ve learned the hard way that a flashy Dodge Challenger might look fun, but it’s completely impractical when you hit soft sand or rugged terrain. These vehicles are essential for reaching some of the more remote and wild locations I seek out.

My trips typically span 3–4 weeks, during which I criss-cross the country to cover as much ground as possible. I meticulously plan my journey in advance, mapping out potential subjects and locations, but I also leave room for chance discoveries—those serendipitous moments you can’t predict. While I aim to shoot in the golden hours of morning and evening, the sheer volume of places to explore often means shooting in the harsher light of midday too.

One of my favourite parts of these trips is escaping the busy freeways and venturing onto quieter B-roads. There’s something magical about those stretches of road—wild, desolate, and full of character. I’ll blast out my favourite tunes as I drive, soaking in the atmosphere and letting the rhythm of the journey guide me. Those long hours behind the wheel become just as integral to the creative process as the time spent behind the camera.

Scouting locations like this is a mix of research, intuition, and a bit of luck. Living in Australia, my connection to the American landscape has always felt somewhat removed, yet deeply evocative. There’s a mystique about its vastness and the way its forgotten corners reflect a shared cultural memory. This specific location came about as part of my ongoing quest to uncover places that embody the themes of stillness, abandonment, and time paused.

Before any trip, I spend countless hours researching potential sites. This includes pouring over maps, and exploring Google Earth. Once I have a rough plan, I map out a route but remain flexible—some of the most rewarding finds happen when I stray off the main path.

This location, for example, was one I stumbled upon a couple of years ago while passing through on my way to a dry lake. It immediately drew me in—the half-buried car, set against the stark expanse of the desert, felt like a relic suspended in time. It perfectly captured the melancholic essence I strive to convey in my Lost America series. Although I made a mental note of it, I neglected to mark it on a map, so rediscovering it later required some determined detective work.

Although traveling from Australia to the US is a significant undertaking, the pull of these locations is irresistible. The sheer scale and diversity of the American landscape make every trip an adventure. It’s about more than just the photographs; it’s about the journey itself—those long drives through backroads, the serendipity of unexpected discoveries, and the deep connection that forms between the photographer and the land.

Richard Misrach, Joel Sternfeld, and Stephen Shore have been pivotal influences, particularly in how they capture the detail in the banal landscape. Misrach’s mastery of light and his ability to find beauty in environmental desolation resonates deeply with the themes I explore in Lost America. Sternfeld’s subtle storytelling, often imbued with a quiet irony, has shaped how I approach narrative in my own photography. And Stephen Shore’s groundbreaking work with colour and composition taught me to find depth and meaning in the seemingly mundane.

Beyond them, I’m also inspired by contemporary artists and filmmakers who explore similar themes of memory, isolation, and the passage of time. Their work pushes me to constantly refine how I communicate the emotional resonance of the spaces I capture.

I'm constantly scouting for compelling subjects in America, as the country continues to provide an endless well of inspiration. Lost America has opened new creative doors, and I'm exploring how to expand the series, potentially delving into themes that feel more ominous and unsettling, capturing the darker edges of forgotten landscapes.

Looking ahead, I’m planning a trip to Southeast Asia in mid-2025 to build on my 'Kalah' series. There’s something profoundly moving about the juxtaposition of dense jungle, concrete environments, and quiet, overlooked spaces that carry their own stories of transformation and resilience. An opportunity to explore themes of cultural and environmental contrast, which brings a new dimension to my work. It’s an exciting time creatively, as I feel drawn to balance the familiar with the completely uncharted.