Where the Light Falls

The street doesn’t wait. It breathes, it shifts, it offers and withdraws. What I’ve learned is to move slowly—slower than the rush, but fast enough to catch a glance before it turns.

These pictures weren’t hunted. They arrived. A butcher wiping his hands between customers.

A child staring past the camera into something I couldn’t see. A woman laughing, her face divided by sunlight and shadow.

Each frame is a fragment of unannounced theatre.

I don’t ask the street to explain itself. I only try to stand still long enough to see what it’s willing to give.

Markets are my refuge. The repetition of labour, the comfort of exchange, the humility of small gestures—these are the stories I return to. Here, nothing is posed. And yet everything performs.

Photography, for me, is less about capturing and more about acknowledging. These scenes—fleeting and quiet—remind me that truth doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it just waits in the corner of the frame.