Sometimes I wonder what it is I truly desire to see as a photographer.
Do I shoot because I can or do I shoot because it is truly my passion?
I think I am more intrigued by the creation process than I am the finished product.
I am told I have an eye, but for some reason I cannot pinpoint my very own style.
I find myself focused on the technical aspects so much now I have lost sight of how glorious the human body truly is. The small hairs that grows so subtly out of every single pore spread across our delicate skin.
Composition, lighting, color.
What about me the meaning behind the image?
The intensity I breath should be felt in every image.
Why do I create?
Apparently to express my feelings.
But why do my feelings feel so lackluster?
Seems like only words can truly paint a picture of my devine being.
I think my images display my deepest insecurities.
I come alive through those I capture.
I have no flaws when I am shooting because through my eyes they are perfect.
I guess that’s why I often love the images they don’t particularly care for.
I appreciate the raw.
Maybe because I live my life in its most rawest form.
Unpainted nails and toes most men would snarl at.
Dirty sneakers and uncombed hair with my truest face always revealed to the world.