It all begins with a long breath, whssssped in as soon as I hit the street. A deep inhalation, air lifting my nostrils, tilting back my head, focusing my eyes—my eyes zeroing in on everything in front of me. My head clears and I start to not simply see the street in front of me, I see a flow of shapes, forms, colors—I begin to see possible photographs…

It all starts with one photo. The jukebox in the New York City bar in Robert Frank’s The Americans, by my count, the fourth jukebox pictured in the book, the one that’s pure light, glowing top and middle and bottom-sides, its no-doubt candy-colored exuberance turned into simple black and white, highly contrasted, the light framing a man’s arm thrusting into the photo from the right, a bar sign also reduced to pure light floating above a couple at a checkered-cloth table, nursing their beers …

People often say to me, You sure make a lot of photobooks. What’s up with that?

I get it, sometimes it can feel odd even to me, as if I’m churning out too much work. Yet I believe all of my photobooks are as strong and tightly edited as they can be, and all are singular expressions. So what gives?…