I am nostalgic. It’s a quiet, persistent feeling that threads through my life, lingering in the spaces between decisions and the echoes of choices made on impulse. My parents and I have always embraced change, and often it came quickly. As a child, we left Quebec for California, chasing new opportunities for my dad's career. In my early 20s, I did the same, moving to New Mexico in search of financial stability. Spontaneous tattoos, sudden relationships, and gut-driven financial choices have all shaped who I am, and they often leave me wondering how many of my past decisions have unknowingly steered the course of my life.
This way of living has led me to a certain fixation on nostalgia, a kind of quiet longing for the past that seems both distant and immediate. It shows up in my work often, captured in photographs of state fairs, afternoons spent by the lake, or the familiar silhouettes of architecture. These images have a a dreamlike quality, as if they could have been taken in any era, or perhaps in all of them.
I find myself drawn to ephemeral moments with my camera, as though I’m trying to preserve something fleeting before it slips away. In revisiting these moments, I’m questioning the impulse to leap forward without knowing where I’ll land. It’s both a reckoning and a celebration. And it's an attempt to hold onto something that has always been just out of reach, yet feels like a part of me.
