The Creative Process

Unpredictability as the Ultimate Creative Force

One of the most important principles in my work is arriving without expectations. I don't show up with a checklist of shots I need to get, or a mental image of what the perfect photograph should look like. That approach would blind me to what's actually there.

Instead, I arrive open. I let the light, the weather, the mood of the place guide me. And here's what I've learned: unpredictability is the most creative element in landscape photography. Not planning. Not control. Unpredictability.

This becomes especially clear when capturing natural events like storms. There is absolutely no control over the weather. You can't direct the lightning. You can't choreograph the clouds. You can't schedule the moment when light breaks through the darkness. You're completely at the mercy of forces far greater than yourself.

And it's exhilarating. Moment by moment, everything is changing rapidly. The wind shifts. The light transforms. The storm evolves. You're experiencing this raw, powerful event while simultaneously trying to capture it. There's no time to overthink, no opportunity to second-guess. You're purely reactive, purely present, purely alive in that moment.

The most powerful images come from these moments of pure presence. A sudden shift in light that lasts three seconds. An unexpected composition that appears and vanishes. A moment of serendipity that only happens when you've let go of control and surrendered to the unpredictability of the natural world.

This is why I don't manipulate my images afterward. To add elements that weren't there, to composite multiple moments together, would be to deny the very thing that makes these photographs meaningful: they captured something real, something unpredictable, something that happened in a specific moment of spacetime and will never happen again. The unpredictability isn't a challenge to overcome—it's the source of everything creative and alive in the work.

The Dichotomy of the Creative Process

There's a fascinating dichotomy in how I work, and understanding it has been crucial to creating authentic images. The creative process operates in three distinct phases, each requiring a completely different mindset.

Phase 1: Meticulous Planning

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"High Altitude Home" — Mount Aconcagua, Argentina

Before any expedition, I plan obsessively. Every logistical detail matters. I research gear extensively—what lenses will work best for the terrain, what weather protection I'll need, how much equipment I can realistically carry at altitude. I map out routes with precision, study transport logistics, analyze when the best lighting will occur at specific locations. Learn more about the specific equipment I use and why.

At 5,000 meters above sea level, every ounce matters. Your body is already struggling with oxygen deprivation—carrying unnecessary weight isn't just inconvenient, it can be dangerous. But weight isn't the only challenge. Practically all electronic equipment starts breaking down because of the extreme cold and its effect on batteries. Camera batteries that last hours at sea level die in minutes. Electronics fail. Gear that works perfectly in normal conditions becomes unreliable.

One thing you realize quickly at high altitude is how most things are engineered for sea level, not for the extremity of these environments. The assumptions built into everyday technology—normal air pressure, moderate temperatures, adequate oxygen—all break down. You learn to work around these limitations, to bring backup batteries, to keep equipment warm against your body, to accept that some shots simply won't be possible because the technology can't handle the conditions.

This phase is methodical, analytical, left-brained. I'm solving problems before they occur, anticipating challenges, creating contingency plans. The better I plan, the more prepared I am for the unpredictable.

Phase 2: Complete Adaptation

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"The Gathering Storm" — Mount Kilimanjaro

But the second I arrive at a location, everything flips. All that planning becomes background knowledge, and I switch to a completely opposite muscle—adapting, free-forming, figuring out in the moment how to respond and how to proceed.

The light isn't what I expected. The weather has changed. The landscape reveals something I couldn't have anticipated from maps and research. In these moments, I need to be fluid, responsive, present. The planning gives me the freedom to adapt—because I'm not worried about logistics, I can focus entirely on the creative moment.

Phase 3: Patient Revelation

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"Mirror Mirror" — Patagonia, Argentina

After capturing images, I don't rush to process them. I let the raw files sit—sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months. I need distance from the moment of capture to see the image clearly. The emotional intensity of being there can cloud judgment. Time provides clarity.

There are images I've rediscovered years later, seeing them in a completely new light. What I dismissed in the field reveals itself as something profound when I return to it with fresh eyes. Or an image I thought was strong shows its weaknesses with time and perspective.

When I finally edit, I think of it like cleaning and polishing a pearl. The pearl already exists—it formed naturally, authentically. My job isn't to create it or fundamentally change it. It's to remove the debris, to bring out its inherent luster, to reveal what was always there but perhaps obscured.

I make adjustments to ensure the image accurately represents what I witnessed—correcting for how the camera sensor interprets light differently than the human eye, balancing exposure, refining clarity. But I'm not adding elements. I'm not creating drama that didn't exist. I'm revealing the truth of that moment, polishing it until it shines with the same intensity I felt when I was there. Learn more about my printing process and lifetime guarantee.