The World we leave behind

When I photograph, I’m not trying to take something from a place. I’m trying to make an introduction—between you and a moment you might never stand in yourself.

Recently, I photographed Oscar, a five-year-old boy with the future ahead of him. In the image, he leans close to a bubble he has just blown, holding it up to his eye. Inside the fragile sphere, the reflection of the forest bends and curves—a whole world contained in something so delicate it could vanish with the next breeze.

I can’t help but wonder: when Oscar is my age, what will the world inside his bubble look like? Will the forests still stand, the rivers still run, the air still hold the weight of birds’ wings? Or will the reflections we leave for him be of something we can no longer touch?

Photography has always been part witness, part plea. In the 19th century, images of Yosemite helped convince a government to protect it. In the 20th, photographs of Earth from space changed how we saw our planet. Today, we need images that remind us what’s still here, what is slipping away, and what is worth fighting for.

The old-growth forests I work in are rare, and growing rarer. Each trip into them feels like both a privilege and a race against time. My lens is one way to hold onto these moments—but ultimately, I hope the work moves beyond the frame and into action.

Because the truth is, no photograph will ever be as powerful as standing in the cathedral light of a thousand-year-old forest, feeling the ground breathe beneath your feet—and knowing it will still be there for the next generation’s bubble to hold.