For three years, Midtown was more than just where I lived - it was where I watched the city unfold, frame by frame. I walked the same blocks every day, camera in hand, but nothing ever repeated. A cab wedged too tightly against another in the endless crush of traffic, a woman moving through the streets with an armful of oversized balloons, a girl kneeling in the middle of Bryant Park, offering a flower to another. I wasn’t looking for grand scenes or perfect compositions. I was chasing the unscripted, the in-between moments - the kind that slip away before you even realize they mattered.
Shot in color, Around My Block isn’t just about place - it’s about time. The shifting moods of the streets, the way the familiar turns strange from one day to the next. Mornings thick with routine, nights humming with exhaustion, the endless cycle of movement and pause.
Rather than defining Midtown, these images capture what it feels like to be inside it, part of its rhythm.
Selection of 30 pictures - Film camera
Getting closer changes everything. At four feet, the street stops being a backdrop - it pulls you in. Two nuns pass a neon peep show, a painted body strides through a crosswalk, astronauts march between taxis. Faces, gestures, contrasts - at this distance, nothing is neutral. Everything is charged, layered, alive.
These photographs were taken in the same streets as Around My Block, but here, distance collapses. At this range, there’s no hiding. Expressions become clearer, tension more palpable. The city doesn’t just move - it reacts. Some ignore the camera, some embrace it, others push back. The street is no longer just a scene; it’s a conversation.
Four feet is the space where the familiar turns unpredictable. Where strangers become characters, and every step forward is a step deeper into the city's raw, unscripted rhythm.
Selection of 30 pictures - Film camera
The city hides more than it shows. Shadows swallow faces, neon flickers on passing bodies, gestures disappear into the crowd. Then the flash hits. A second of clarity - expressions caught off guard, eyes locking with the lens, moments that shouldn’t have lasted but suddenly do. The light doesn’t just reveal - it exposes.
With flash, the city has nowhere to retreat. Every frame is a raw slice of movement, a collision of strangers, a brief moment of truth. What happens next is already gone - but for that instant, everything is exposed.
Selection of 18 pictures - Film camera
In the first weeks of the Covid-19 pandemic, as the city entered lockdown, everything stopped. New York wasn’t just quiet - it felt abandoned. Streets built for millions stood deserted, their emptiness stretching block after block, an eerie stillness swallowing the city whole. Neon signs flickered for no one. Traffic lights changed for cars that never came. Even the air seemed different, thick with the weight of something invisible yet undeniable.
But ghosts still walked. A woman in a mask, eyes darting beneath fluorescent warnings. Two workers huddled on a bench, their voices small against the canyon of silence. A lone figure wrapped in plastic, somewhere between protection and surrender. The city hadn’t stopped - it had fractured, splintered into fragments of isolation, each person trapped in their own muted world.
And I walked too. Day after day, for what felt like an endless stretch of time, I had roamed these streets with my camera, absorbing their rhythm, their movement, their pulse. Then, overnight, that pulse was gone. The emptiness was disorienting, unreal, yet I kept going - searching for something that still felt alive, for proof that the city hadn’t disappeared, even as it slipped into silence.
This wasn’t just emptiness. It was a rupture, a city frozen mid-motion, caught between what it was and what it would become. These photographs capture that silence, that weight, that fleeting surrealism - before it faded, before the streets filled again, before everything was rewritten.
Selection of 30 pictures - Film camera
New York in the rain isn’t romantic. There’s no jazz soundtrack, no poetic reflections on wet sidewalks. Just urgency. Water slamming down, clothes clinging, umbrellas snapping inside out in an instant. Some people run, some huddle under doorways, and some just surrender - soaked to the bone, staring blankly into the downpour.
What interests me isn’t just the struggle, but the unscripted reactions - the way a soaked stranger laughs in disbelief, how a businessman grips his useless umbrella like a broken shield, or how a mother instinctively shields her child with her own body. These are the moments I chase. The ones where the city loses control for a second, where instinct takes over, and where people reveal something raw.
Because when the rain comes this hard, it doesn’t just soak the city - it strips it down to its most human moments.
Selection of 30 pictures - Film camera
For a long time, Manhattan was my entire world. I walked its streets daily, camera in hand, capturing its energy, its movement, its pulse. Beyond the rivers, the other boroughs were just distant names - places I never felt the need to explore.
Then, one day, I left. A random decision, a subway ride heading north, and suddenly, I was somewhere else. The Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, Staten Island - places I had never known, yet places that felt strangely familiar. Streets lined with red brick buildings, children playing on stoops, echoes of a life that could have been mine in another time, another place.
This series isn’t about documenting a city. It’s about a feeling - about walking through unfamiliar streets and seeing reflections of my own past. These images exist somewhere between reality and memory, between what I saw and what I imagined.
Selection of 20 pictures - Film camera
Paris, seen through the grain of black and white film, feels suspended in time.
This series is a return to my earliest years of street photography - a time when I roamed the city with a camera, instinctively drawn to scenes that echoed the great humanist photographers of the past. The moments I captured don’t belong to any specific era; they could have been taken decades ago or yesterday.
There’s a certain stillness to the city, hidden in plain sight. A man in a crisp suit, lost in thought, flicks a lighter to the tip of his cigarette, his posture and movements echoing a hundred Parisian figures before him. In a quiet park, an old man sits alone on a bench, hands folded over his cane, watching the world move on without him. Elsewhere, beneath the shade of neatly aligned trees, another man scatters breadcrumbs to a waiting flock of pigeons, caught in a ritual as old as the city itself.
These are fragments of a Paris that exists beyond time - where the past lingers in the present, and where human connection, solitude, and the quiet poetry of daily life remain untouched.
Selection of 20 pictures - Film camera
The past lingers in the narrow alleys, in the crumbling facades, in the quiet rituals of those who still call these streets home. In Beijing’s vanishing hutongs, in the shrinking markets of Shanghai, in the corners of old Hong Kong where time has yet to be erased, life persists - familiar, unhurried, unaware of the tides that will soon wash it away.
A man walks slowly through a quiet street, hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette blending into a scene that could have existed fifty years ago. A fishmonger leans over his counter, mid-negotiation, the fluorescent lights casting a dull glow over a trade that may not survive another decade. A lone vendor sits on the steps of a modern storefront, his crates of fruit laid out like relics from a past that no longer fits.
These are not images of resistance, nor of defiance. They are fragments of a world that is disappearing not in a sudden collapse, but in the quiet erosion of time. Black and white film preserves what is already slipping away - turning fading moments into something tangible, something that refuses to be forgotten.
This is not a document of history. It is a memory of the present, already vanishing.
Selection of 20 pictures - Film camera
