Every artist knows the season when creation demands everything. When you’re the one making, editing, writing, and building, there’s no balance—only the work itself. But inside that intensity lies a deeper understanding of why we create at all.

There’s a quiet pressure in creative work—to make it matter, to prove it means something. But not every photograph needs to carry a message. Sometimes, the most meaningful work is the kind that simply helps you see more clearly. And remember who you are.

The camera doesn’t respond to beauty the way the eye does. On Maui, that truth becomes obvious fast. For photographers, it’s not just about finding the scene—it’s about learning to see differently. Slower. More deliberately.

For years, I’ve used subtle rituals to shift my mindset before I shoot—like stepping into character. Not to pretend, but to become more focused, more present. This book shares that internal process, drawn from years of fieldwork, reflection, and a few unlikely influences—like spies.

Before I leave for Tokyo, I’ve been thinking about the difference between long-form and short-form study—between deep familiarity and fast clarity—and how each shapes the way I photograph and teach. Whether it’s a workshop in Maui or a night shoot in Shinjuku, it all comes back to one thing: learning how to truly see.

Reflecting on the passing of a legend, this tribute to Sebastião Salgado explores the depth of his work, his influence on my path, and what he gave to the world through photography.

If you’ve been doing strong work for years and still feel like you have nothing to say about it—maybe it’s time to ask yourself why. Not to shame yourself. But to see that this might be the doorway to something more.

Not every phase of the photographic journey comes with direction. Sometimes, it begins with not knowing—only the pull to keep going, and the trust that meaning will meet you along the way.

What we say about our photographs—how we describe them, interpret them, share them—can shape the work itself. After years spent in galleries and in conversation with collectors, I’ve learned that finding the words is more than an afterthought. It’s a creative act of its own.

Some images begin not with a plan, but with a feeling. Michelle Aronson reflects on photography as a personal practice—shaped by intuition, emotion, and the quiet process of learning to see more clearly.

Even after 25 years on the path, insecurity still surfaces—especially when it comes to sharing. But when we meet it with presence, it becomes part of the process, not a barrier to it.

Some of the most extraordinary images can’t be planned—they come when you trust your instincts. This is why intuition may be a photographer’s greatest tool, leading you to moments of magic and connection that go far beyond the frame.