Street photography is where the world doesnโt poseโbut it still performs. Itโs the art of noticing: gestures, glances, juxtapositions, and fleeting moments that vanish as quickly as they appear. Whether itโs a woman balancing a basket in Phnom Penhโs morning haze or a child chasing shadows in a Bangkok alley, the street offers a stage where the unscripted becomes profound.
My Cameras and Lenses: Tools of Intention
Over four decades, my gear has shiftedโfrom film to digital, from heavy DSLRs to nimble mirrorless bodiesโbut one thingโs remained: I choose tools that demand engagement. Not automation. Not convenience. Presence.

DSLR Bodies
- Nikon D3,D3S โ My workhorse in low light. Its files donโt need rescuingโthey arrive ready. The shutter sounds like certainty.
- Nikon D700, D800, D810 and D850 โ Soulful and balanced. Itโs not just nostalgiaโitโs the way they render tone and texture, especially with older Nikkors.
- Canon 1D MkIV โ For fast-paced work when I need speed and clarity. Its autofocus locks like a promise.
Mirrorless Fujifilm
- Fujifilm X-Series (X-E and X-Pro lines) โ Lightweight, deliberate, and personal. With my custom Tri-X simulation dialed in, they give me the immediacy of film without the rituals Iโve outgrown. These cameras are quiet enough to disappear, but never soft in character.
Lenses
- Nikon AF-D Primes โ Particularly theย 20mm f/2.8ย and 85mm f/1.8. Theyโre from another timeโbuilt for clarity, not perfection.
- Canon L-Series โ The 24-70mm f/2.8L remains as versatile as it is honest.
- Fujinon XF Series โ Small gems. The 23mm f/2 practically lives on my Fuji body when Iโm walking the markets. I also return often to the 35mm f/1.4โit breathes beautifully at twilight.
- Legacy Glass โ Adapted lenses slow me down. Thatโs the point. I use them for the tactility as much as the image.
These arenโt just toolsโthey shape how I see. They remind me that photography isnโt about having the latest gear, but about choosing the one that helps you listen, respond, and sometimes just stand still and let the moment arrive.









Why I Photograph
I take pictures because itโs the most honest way I know to stay connectedโto people, to place, to myself. When words fail or oversimplify, the image remains: direct, silent, unflinching. The camera helps me listen longer, look deeper. It slows me down in a world that rarely allows for pause.
I donโt photograph to make subjects of people. I photograph to acknowledge them. To say: I see you. You matter. Whether in the rhythms of Phnom Penhโs streets or the rising waters of Tonlรฉ Sap, my work is shaped by respectโfor the moment, for the history in it, and for the story behind the eyes.
Making pictures helps keep me active and mostly sane. Thereโs something profoundly grounding about the act of photographingโthe way it demands attention, movement, and presence. Itโs physical, mental, and even emotional exercise. In a world that spins faster than it should, making images can slow things just enough to notice the texture of a face, the way light pools on broken pavement, or the quiet dignity of a person simply being.

Making pictures keeps me activeโand mostly sane. Itโs not just a craft or a calling; itโs a form of balance. Thereโs a restlessness inside me that quiets when the viewfinder frames the world just so. The act of photographingโwalking, observing, composingโanchors me. In the most uncertain places, with the most uncertain people, I find clarity in that moment of stillness.
Over the years, Iโve come toย realiseย that photography is less about capturing whatโs in front of you and more about how you remain present with it. The process gives shape to my days. It focuses the mind, steadies the body, and occasionally, redeems the chaos. Whether Iโm working on the Tonlรฉ Sap or wandering Phnom Penhโs side streets, the camera isnโt just an observerโitโs a mirror. Sometimes it reflects what the world is. Other times, what I fearย isย becoming









The Ritual of Seeing
Photography steadies me. Thereโs a ritual to it nowโselecting the gear, dialling in settings, and checking focus by feel. I work with tools that demand something of me: a Nikon D700, a Canon 1D MkIV in a world of touchscreen immediacy and algorithmic distraction, making pictures this way draws me inward. I move deliberately, wait longer, and see more. That act of seeingโtruly seeingโbecomes a kind of resilience. Every time I lift the camera, Iโm choosing to stay engaged, to stay curious, to not turn away. The camera doesn’t numb me to the worldโs struggles; it compels me to stay open.

Ageing With the Lens
The longer Iโve photographed, the more the camera has become not just a tool, but a companion through time. When I was young, it was about urgencyโchasing moments, chasing stories. Now, it’s just as much about listening. To people. To light. To the texture of silence.
What I carry has changedโnot just in the bag, but in the body. I move slower, but I see more. I anticipate rather than react. There’s wisdom in patience, in letting a scene settle before pressing the shutter.
The act of shooting now feels closer to contemplation than conquest. Maybe it always was, but I was too restless to notice.
Past the Romance of Film
I no longer shoot film. But not because Iโve lost faith in itโonly because Iโve made peace with its echo. The grain, the latitude, the discipline it demandedโtheyโre still with me. Theyโve shaped how I shoot today. My digital cameras are tuned, not to mimic film, but to carry its spirit. The Tri-X simulation Iโve built isnโt nostalgiaโitโs memory with intention.
Letting go of film meant letting go of certain rituals, but it also meant gaining immediacy. The darkroom became the field. Decisions once delayed now happen in-camera. I donโt miss the chemicals on my hands, but I do miss the time those hands held still, waiting for something to appear.
Now, every digital file I make still begins with the same question: what am I really trying to say? That question doesnโt care whether itโs ISO 400 TX or 40MP RAWโit just wants to be answered with honesty.





The Ethics of the Edit
After the frame is made, the harder work begins. Not in Lightroom, not in cropping or curvesโbut in asking: Does this honor the moment? Editing isn’t about selecting the sharpest photo or the most dramatic light. Itโs about truth in intention. About deciding whatโs responsible to show, and whatโs better left unspoken.
Sometimes the most technically perfect shot feels empty. Other times, an image that’s flawedโsoft focus, skewed horizonโrings true. I’ve learned to trust what a picture feels like. That kind of editing doesnโt show up on histograms.
And in this age of spectacle, of scrolling and algorithms, I find myself editing more rigorously. Not to cut, but to protect. The people I photographโespecially in Cambodiaโs more vulnerable spacesโdonโt need me to amplify their suffering. They need dignity. They need to be seen as whole, not as symbols.
My edit is where ethics meet instinct.




What Remains
Thereโs a quiet reckoning in revisiting old work. Images once passed over suddenly glow with meaning; others, once chosen, now feel hollow. Time has a way of editing us, too.
I no longer measure success by publication or praise. A successful photograph, to me, is one that holdsโstill resonant after the context has faded. It asks nothing but presence, and perhaps, leaves behind a trace of connection. A boy sleeping in the hull of a boat on the Tonlรฉ Sap. A woman watching monsoon light graze the wall of her stilted home. These arenโt โstoriesโ in the journalistic sense. Theyโre acknowledgments. Small truths.
In a culture of constant visual noise, less feels like an act of resistance. Fewer frames. Fewer captions. More listening. More time.
These days, I edit not just to find the best image, but to find the most honest one. The one that still makes me feel what I felt when I raised the camera. Thatโs the frame that matters.
Markets in Asia are one of my favorite places to disappear into. Not as a shopper, not even always as a photographerโbut as an observer. Thereโs a rhythm to them, ancient and unspoken. Women hunch over baskets of long beans, trimming ends with blades that have curved into the shape of their habits. Men stack durians with the same studied precision they learned from their fathers. You can hear five languages in a single row, smell fire-charred fish beside fresh-cut jackfruit, feel the pull of gravity in rice sacks hoisted onto backs.
This is what draws me: the work of hands. Honest, repetitive, skilled. Thereโs no performance hereโjust necessity. And yet, itโs theatre of the most human kind.
Photographing markets isnโt about spectacle. Itโs about intimacy. If Iโm patient, people forget the camera. Or maybe they just stop needing to perform for it. And in that space between awareness and indifference, thereโs truth.
These moments donโt make headlines. But they make something quieter















































































































































