Sky emerged alongside Earth from a growing fascination with perception. While Earth drew my attention toward what I had overlooked beneath my feet, Sky turned me toward what lay beyond the reach of my eyes.

I became interested in the distance between seeing something and knowing it.

Inspired by Charles and Ray Eames’ Powers of Ten and images from the Hubble Space Telescope, I began imagining the sky at scales I could never experience directly. Standing beneath it, I could see clouds, shifting light, and changing color. Beyond that familiar view were distances and histories I could only approach through images, knowledge, and imagination. The sky felt both immediately present and impossible to comprehend.

Photographing it became a way of staying with that feeling. Each image held a visible surface of an encounter whose vastness exceeded the frame. I was drawn to the limits of the photograph as much as to what it could reveal: how something could be before me, yet remain largely unknown.

During this period, I was also beginning to explore Eastern philosophy and questions about identity, reality, and consciousness. These encounters made me more willing to question the boundaries of my own understanding. I wondered how much of what I called reality depended on what I was capable of perceiving—and what I had learned to recognize.

Looking at Sky now, I see an early connection to the shifts in vantage point that continue through my work. A change of scale, distance, or imagined position can alter our relationship to something familiar. We can remain in the same place and find that our sense of where we are has changed completely.

Sky invites the viewer to spend time at that boundary between observation and imagination, where the visible opens onto something we cannot fully grasp. For me, there is wonder in knowing that the world exceeds our understanding, and that looking can deepen a question without resolving it.