Photography, for me, is closer to what the Japanese call shokunin (職人): a craft you spend a lifetime refining. Not toward mastery as an endpoint, but toward a steady commitment to the work itself. There is no point of arrival. That is the point.

I've been at this for over twenty years. I started, and have not stopped. It has grown the way things grow — without asking.

What it has grown away from, mostly, is noise. In the early years, a good picture was a loud one — dramatic light, broken skies, the obvious moments. That taste has quietly left. So has the hunt for elaborate scenes. What I look for now is harder: a picture in whatever the day offers. Less, rather than more.

That quieter attention is also where something else can happen. It begins with hours of standing — watching the light shift, adjusting to a landscape that is itself adjusting. At some point, without warning, the sense of self recedes. Time loses its usual feel. Seeing, deciding, and acting thin into a single motion. The pictures, when they come, are a side-product of that attention, not its purpose.

And the picture, when it comes, is still not the end of it. A photograph becomes itself in print. And from that moment, it belongs to itself.

Selected publications & recognition

• 2025 — Top 101, International Landscape Photographer of the Year: Gobi II, Gobi IV, Gobi VII, Gobi VIII
• 2024 — Top 101, International Landscape Photographer of the Year: Langisjór
• 2022 — Top 101, International Landscape Photographer of the Year: Grown I