I've always had an affinity toward the natural.  Growing up in rural Florida, my free time was filled with outdoor adventures.  It wasn't uncommon to find my sister and me running around barefoot in the woods, building forts out of fallen tree limbs or draping Spanish moss over our shoulders, while pretending to ride invisible horses.  Rather than spending Sunday mornings in a church, I would go fishing with my dad. We embarked from the rickety wooden docks of the Little Manatee River while egrets and roseate spoonbills watched us cautiously from the riverbank. 

What I remember most from those woodland wanderings and mornings on the water were the lights, shapes and colors.  Sunlight streamed through tall oaks, casting shadows on the underbrush where my sister and I would play.  The scene would change shape with the movement of the sun, creating an undulating landscape that fostered my imagination.  While on the water with my dad, the morning sky was a watercolor mix of rose and gold, brushed with wispy white clouds that reflected on the tannin stained water. Tall green cattails lined the river.  In their shadows hid something ancient and reptilian.  

As I grew older, I realized the importance of really knowing my environment and establishing a sense of place. This is the foundation of my photography. There is uniqueness all around us, whether it be a flower on the cusp of bloom, a painterly sky, a rusty rooftop, or a crumbling facade.  How I interpret these otherwise benign objects helps me better understand how I fit within my landscape. By looking at our surroundings from a childlike perspective, I believe that we see things that are normally unseen. In turn, we find our own unique sense of place.  In the words of Wendell Berry, “If you don’t know where you are, you don’t know who you are.”