Filmmaking was never just about video—it was about preservation. A way to hold onto what’s fleeting, to notice, to remember. What began as a quiet fascination has become second nature—almost like learning a new language of light, movement, and emotion.
I approach my work the way I approach life: with curiosity, intention, and deep appreciation for the beauty in the in-between. My lens is drawn to quiet gestures, the weight of a glance, the way light and shadow speak without words. Every frame is a reflection—not just of what’s in front of me, but of where I’ve been, and how I’ve learned to see.
When I’m not filming, I’m with family, planning my next trip, or outside somewhere—kayaking through Lucky Peak, walking beneath trees, or resting in a sun-dappled park. I always pause to notice the light. I love to travel, and wherever I go, I bring something small home with me—a handmade piece of art, a trinket—to hold onto the feeling of that place.
The hush of snowfall in a quiet village. The shimmer of a summer lake. Laughter echoing through a market square. These textures stay with me—and shape the way I see your story: with open eyes and a renewed sense of wonder.
I’m drawn to both the big moments and the small ones — what's real. It’s not just about documenting what happened, but about holding on to how it felt. When we watch our old family home videos, they’re not polished or perfect. They weren’t made to impress anyone, just to remember. This simple act of preservation, of honoring life as it unfolds, is at the heart of my work. I’m driven by the belief that our stories — our family archives — are among the most valuable things we leave behind.