Warm late-afternoon light was settling over the hills when my son brought me to this place—a quiet pocket of New Mexico high country he knew I would appreciate. Before wandering the meadow, we climbed a nearby hill to look down over the land. From above, the landscape unfolded like a tapestry: gold grasses rippling in the wind, dense pines sweeping across the distance, and a weathered cabin tucked where shadow met light. Even before lifting a camera, I felt the peace of the place reach us.

As we descended into the clearing, a few horses grazed nearby. They moved slowly, unbothered, their presence softening the scene even further. The atmosphere carried that unmistakable high-country stillness—wide, warm, and almost timeless.

The cabin stood quietly at the edge of the meadow, its boards worn and its doorway open to whatever stories drifted through. I wondered who built it, and whether they once paused in this same spot to watch horses drift through tall grass under that same warm, forgiving light.

That afternoon, I was traveling light, carrying only the Sigma DP2 Merrill—a pocket camera with its soulful Foveon sensor. No tripod, no elaborate setup—just the simple act of seeing, waiting for the breeze to settle, and letting the land offer its own rhythm.

We stayed until the sun slipped behind the pines. My son and I stood together for one last moment, taking in the stillness. The horses moved on, the grasses fell quiet, and the cabin—weathered but enduring—held the day’s last light like a memory.

Moments like this reveal the quiet beauty of a pocket camera—unassuming, ready, and faithful to the light you give it.

I have a couple of nearly finished articles waiting in my word processor—one is a technical how-to guide for Hasselblad 500 users (with accompanying images I still need to format), and the other is an essay on aesthetics and photography. I’m considering giving the aesthetics essay a fresh visual approach, perhaps a “note-card” style layout so readers can absorb the concepts in smaller, more approachable pieces.

I’ve always believed in teaching art inside of photography—not just the mechanics, but the deeper visual language behind the image. It’s rare to find resources that combine both, and for many photographers, the artistic side is the hardest to grasp. Now that this website has become my teaching space, I want to be thoughtful about how I present those ideas. In a classroom, I could rely on questions, comments, and shared examples to guide understanding; translating that kind of interactive teaching into written form simply takes more care.

I’m taking a short break to test some new-to-me film gear out in the field, but while I’m away, I wanted to share a favorite image and a moment that meant something to me. I’ll be back soon with the new articles.