Mesa para todos (A seat for everyone)
This work is a reflection on winter as a space of quiet anticipation, a moment suspended between what was and what might return. The snow-covered chairs evoke absence, but also the certainty that someone will sit again. In Peru, the phrase “hay mesa para todos” (“there is a table/seat for everyone”), carries the cultural weight of unconditional welcome. It expresses the idea that no matter how little there is, there is always something to share, always space to receive others. The image echoes that sentiment, a gathering that hasn’t happened yet, or perhaps already passed, but still leaves its trace. It honours the everyday acts of kindness that often go unseen: the choice to care, to share, and to make space. I hope viewers feel not just stillness or nostalgia, but a quiet call to reflect on how we relate to others, and to recognise that offering space, even when we have little, is itself an act of abundance.
To Nourish
Among the petals and the light, something ancient unfolds. One flower fades, another offers itself fully. A bee arrives, drawn not by beauty, but by need. And yet, in this quiet exchange, there is grace. This image asks us to shift our perspective. Not to see as the bee, but as the flower. A being whose purpose is not to possess, but to give. To offer without expectation. To sustain others as part of simply being alive. In the quiet generosity of the natural world, there is a different kind of order. One that values care over control, presence over power. This image is a reflection on that balance. It reminds us that our purpose may not be to chase more, but to connect, to give, to nurture. To live well might mean learning from what surrounds us every day. The unnoticed, the ordinary. That offering something of ourselves; knowledge, kindness, love; is not weakness, but the truest kind of strength.
Still.
This photograph captures a dense urban sprawl, most of it cloaked in shadow. A single cluster of buildings, however, receives the full attention of the sun. The result is not only a visual contrast, but a quiet suggestion: that even in the most crowded, rigid spaces, light knows where to land. At its core, this image is a meditation on presence. Cities often speak of repetition, anonymity, and noise. In them, it is easy to feel small, even invisible. Yet here, light does not fill the entire frame. It chooses a corner, briefly, without fanfare. That brief moment becomes a gesture, a reminder that clarity, connection, or even comfort, may still find us without our needing to seek it. This is not a photograph about spectacle. It is about interruption; the soft kind. The kind that enters without warning, cutting through the sameness of a day, or the heaviness of thought. It gestures to resilience, not the loud kind, but the type that remains unspoken, steady, and often unnoticed. Whether the light is read as hope, attention, divinity, or simply a break in the pattern, it is a moment of stillness within an otherwise relentless scene. A quiet assurance that something is always reaching back.