The first time I set my bag down on the black sand at Reynisfjara, the rain was coming in sideways and my hood was already useless.

I ran my palm across a wall I had just photographed and felt every ridge my fingers passed over.

I have spent a lot of time waiting. Standing in an abandoned mill in Lawrence, Massachusetts at 6:40 in the evening

The first time I stood in front of one of Iceland's glacial waterfalls, I remember feeling completely overwhelmed. The roar drowned out every other sound

The upper floor of a derelict German hospital is almost completely dark. When I stepped inside, the only illumination came through windows so caked with grime they offered more suggestion than light.

I remember standing in an abandoned hospital in Detroit, camera already pointed down a long corridor I’d been thinking about since I arrived.

On the coldest mornings, when most people are reaching for another blanket, I’m reaching for my camera.

The first time I pointed my camera toward a living city, it felt… loud. Unpredictable. Alive in a way abandoned spaces aren't.