Lagniappe
A Little Something Extra
Not every image fits neatly into a series. Some photographs stand alone—unexpected moments, quiet studies, or glimpses that didn’t belong anywhere else but still deserved a place to land. This gallery is my lagniappe—a Cajun word for a little something extra.
These are the outliers, the in-betweens, the ones that surprised me. Some were made on the way to something else. Others have lingered in my collection for years, waiting for their place. They may not form a single story, but each carries its own weight, its own reason for being.
Here, I’m less concerned with cohesion and more with curiosity. This is where I let intuition lead, and where I return when I want to remember why I started picking up a camera in the first place.
"Nina's Joy"
Nashville, TN 2014
This image is deeply personal for me. It's more than a close-up of a dogwood bloom—it’s a tribute to my grandmother, Nina. Each spring, her favorite dogwood tree would come to life, filling the yard with delicate petals and quiet joy. I remember how she’d pause just to take it in, as if the blossoms were speaking a language only she understood. This photograph is my way of preserving that feeling—of stillness, of beauty, of love quietly passed down through seasons and generations. Every soft curve and textured petal holds a memory of her grace.
"Natchez Sunrise 1"
Franklin, TN, 2017
That morning atop the Natchez Trace Bridge started in stillness. As the first light pushed against the darkness, the fog settled thick over the valley below, tracing the hills in soft, shifting layers. This was one of the earliest frames I made—before the sun broke the horizon. The quiet intensity of the pre-dawn sky, glowing orange above the silhouetted ridgelines, felt electric and expectant. I was drawn to the mood—subtle, surreal, and full of promise.
"Natchez Sunrise 2"
Franklin, TN, 2017
Just minutes later, the sun breached the horizon, flooding the scene with radiant gold. I captured this moment as the fog began to lift and stretch through the trees, while beams of light carved their way through the mist. It was a classic sunrise image in many ways, but the sheer drama of the contrast between light and shadow made it feel fresh and alive. There's a kind of awakening here—nature catching its breath as day begins.
"Natchez Sunrise 3"
Franklin, TN, 2017
This was the most luminous moment of the series. The sun had risen just high enough to pour over the ridge, its rays spreading like fingers across the low fog. I stood quietly, awestruck by the clarity and warmth, how the entire scene pulsed with light. It was over in a flash—fog shifting, light changing—but I managed to catch this balance of brilliance and atmosphere that still feels dreamlike to me.
"Natchez Sunrise 4"
Franklin, TN, 2017
A morning well spent atop the Natchez Trace Bridge in Franklin, TN. This final image, taken just moments after the others, feels quieter—more abstract. The light pours through the trees like liquid gold, blurring the line between form and feeling. This kind of moment, shaped by shifting fog and light, is what draws me most.
"Waterworks 1"
Rock Island S.P., TN, 2015
This image captures just a small section of the base of Twin Falls at Rock Island State Park in Tennessee, but even in this narrow slice, the complexity and beauty of the waterfall are striking. I was drawn to the intricate pattern of water spilling over the rock shelves—like silk unraveling in layers. Using a long exposure allowed me to smooth the motion, revealing the elegant rhythm hidden within the chaos. What I love about this frame is how it focuses on the details: the tension between softness and stone, the resilience of the small plants, the harmony in the repetition. It’s a quiet moment pulled from a much grander scene—a reminder that sometimes the most powerful stories are found in the margins.
"Solitary Twilight 3"
West Tennessee, 2017
The horizon stretched wide and empty, save for this solitary tree holding its place beneath a vast, fading sky. The scene felt less like a moment and more like a memory—soft, quiet, and unresolved. I was drawn not to what was happening, but to what wasn’t. It’s an image about presence without noise, about how stillness can feel expansive rather than alone.
"Solitary Twilight 7"
West Tennessee, 2017
I came across this lone tree just as the last light of day was fading, and everything about the scene felt still and stripped down to its essence. The silhouette stood quietly against a sky that shifted from deep violet to soft rose, like the final breath of daylight. I was drawn to the simplicity—the space, the solitude, the quiet tension between darkness and light. For me, it’s a visual meditation on stillness, endings, and the beauty that lingers just before night fully arrives.
"Mother Church"
Nashville, 2016
I’ve always loved the way architecture can carry the weight of memory, and few places feel as storied as the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. I made this image early one morning, drawn not just to the historic lines of the building, but to the quiet dignity it holds in the heart of the city. The Ryman has seen legends walk its stage and heard countless voices rise and echo in its walls. In this photograph, I wanted to reflect the soul of the place—not with fanfare, but with reverence. For me, it’s a portrait of heritage, faith, and the enduring power of place.
"Shrouded River"
Obed Wild & Scenic River, Wartburg, TN 2017
I made this image early one morning overlooking the Obed River, just as the fog was beginning to lift. There was a quiet power in the way the river carved its path through the landscape—serpentine, patient, and steady. The mist drifted through the trees like a veil, softening the edges and revealing just enough. I was drawn to the contrast between motion and stillness, between what’s seen and what’s hidden. Standing there, I felt like I was witnessing a secret being kept and slowly, reverently, let go.
"The Gathering"
Franklin, TN, 2015
I made this image on a quiet drive through the countryside, when a break in the clouds cast a soft, diffused light across this open field. What stopped me was the line of trees standing together on the rise—some bare, some still holding onto the last leaves of fall. They felt like a gathering of individuals, each at a different stage of letting go. The scene carried a quiet tension, a sense of waiting, or maybe remembering. I was drawn to the simplicity and balance, the space between the trees and the weight of the sky above. It felt like a moment suspended in time—honest, understated, and full of presence.
"Sea of Tranquility"
Hilton Head Island, SC 2014
I made this image just before sunrise on the South Carolina coast, standing barefoot in the cool, wet sand as the tide slowly crept in. The horizon was barely beginning to glow, but the drama was already unfolding in the clouds—massive, sculptural forms rising from the sea like a distant, sleeping city. The stillness was complete, broken only by the soft hiss of the surf and the occasional gull overhead. For me, this photograph is about that rare quiet before the world wakes up—a moment suspended between darkness and day, when everything feels both ancient and new.
"Edge of Blue"
Hilton Head Island, SC 2014
Just before dawn, the sea held its breath. I was drawn to the quiet—the space between night and morning, where the world feels untouched and time slows down. The distant figure felt like an echo, moving through light that hadn’t fully arrived. I took the image to hold onto that stillness—to remember how silence can speak.
"Morning Walk"
Hilton Head Island, SC 2014
I took this just before sunrise, drawn by the quiet rhythm of the tide and the way those two figures seemed drawn into the light. It felt like a moment suspended—soft, reflective, and unspoken.
"Dancing at Dawn"
Hilton Head Island, SC 2014
A warm breeze moved through the grasses, just enough to stir their silhouettes against the morning sky. The horizon hadn’t fully declared itself yet—clouds drifting, light gathering. I was drawn to the quiet tension in that in-between moment, where nothing demanded attention, but everything invited it.
"Live Oaks of Edisto"
South Carolina 2016
I made this image beneath a canopy of centuries-old live oaks on Edisto Island, where the limbs twist and arch like they’re reaching for stories long past. The air was heavy with humidity and quiet—no cars, no voices, just the creak of the branches and the hush of Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. These trees have seen generations come and go, and their forms reflect that weight of time. I was drawn to the way the road curves gently out of sight, framed by those massive trunks—it felt like stepping into another world. This photograph is about history, endurance, and the quiet strength of the southern landscape.
"Crescent City Sanctuary"
French Quarter, New Orleans, LA 2015
While wandering through the French Quarter early one morning, I found myself drawn to this quiet view of St. Louis Cathedral, framed by the wrought iron fence and the overhanging canopy of oaks. Facing Jackson Square and flanked by the Cabildo and the Presbytere, the cathedral rises with a presence that feels both sacred and storied. Built originally in 1727 and later rebuilt after the great fire of 1794, the current structure was completed in the 1850s. As the oldest continuously active Roman Catholic cathedral in the United States, it holds centuries of New Orleans history within its walls. I wanted this image to reflect the reverence of that space—a quiet moment suspended between shadow and light, past and present.
"Respite in the Quarter"
French Quarter, New Orleans, LA 2015
Early one morning in the French Quarter, I came across this musician asleep on the sidewalk, his shoes off, hat on the ground, and resting on his instrument case. He looked like he’d just wrapped up a long night of playing. I paused for a moment, curious about where he’d been and what he’d played, but it didn’t feel right to interrupt his rest. So I made this image instead—a quiet tribute to the soul of New Orleans and the artists who carry its rhythm.
"Creole Whispers"
Louisiana, 2014
I made this image along a quiet lane draped in Spanish moss on the grounds of a former plantation. The trees formed a tunnel so dense it felt like time slowed down. At the end of this path stand the original slave quarters—weathered structures that remain as silent witnesses to an unbearable history. I stood here for a while before raising the camera, aware that the beauty of the scene carried a weight far beyond the visual. This photograph is not just about the light or the symmetry—it's about presence, memory, and the stories that still echo through places like this.
"Rust and Reflection"
Little River Canyon N.P., AL 2017
I made this image on a quiet day exploring backroads in the southern Appalachians. This old bridge—weathered, rust-streaked, and partially crumbling—stood with a kind of reluctant dignity over the shallow creek below. What caught my attention wasn’t just the structure itself, but its reflection in the still water, mirroring every scar and stain. There’s something poetic about places like this—how time and nature slowly reclaim what was once built to last. I was drawn to the tension between decay and endurance, and how beauty often shows up in the places we overlook. This image is a study in contrast: ruin and resilience, steel and stone, shadow and light.
"Autumn Mist"
Rogersville, AL, 2014
This was one of those mornings that felt like a gift. I arrived just as the mist began to rise off the water, catching the first light of day. The fall color on the far bank glowed softly, half-veiled by fog, and the lake reflected it all like a dream not yet fully awake. I didn’t rush to shoot. I stood there for a while, just watching the scene unfold in silence—trying to match the stillness with my own breath before lifting the camera. This image is my attempt to hold on to that quiet, golden moment.
"Divine Light"
Appalachian Trail, Neel Gap, GA 2017
I made this image on the Appalachian Trail at Neel Gap, Georgia, where the morning light broke through the trees in a way that felt almost sacred. As I stood beneath the canopy, beams of sunlight pierced the forest mist and fanned out like a quiet benediction. It stopped me in my tracks. There was something about the stillness, the solitude, and the way the light danced through the branches that felt deeply spiritual—like the forest was breathing, alive and aware. Moments like this are why I hike with a camera—to witness, and hopefully share, the quiet grace of the natural world.
"Resting Giant"
Dahlonega, GA 2017
I came across this fallen tree deep in the woods, and it immediately felt like more than just a piece of the landscape—it felt like a resting giant. The curves and textures of the trunk were full of character, like a weathered sculpture shaped by time, decay, and resilience. Soft light filtered through the canopy and highlighted the mosses and young growth taking hold, reminding me that even in stillness, life continues. I was drawn to the quiet dignity of this scene—a reminder that beauty doesn’t always stand tall; sometimes, it lies low and waits to be noticed.
"Waterworks 7"
Dahlonega, GA 2017
I made this image during a quiet moment in the Blue Ridge Mountains near Dahlonega, Georgia. What caught my eye was the way the stream split and flowed around the rocks—each channel finding its own path with effortless grace. The contrast between the earthy reds of the stone, the lush green moss, and the silky motion of the water felt like nature composing its own visual symphony. I used a longer exposure to soften the flow and draw out that sense of calm. For me, this image is about stillness within motion—a moment of quiet clarity tucked into the heart of the Blue Ridge.
"The Loop 2"
Chicago, IL, 2015
Chicago’s Loop always draws me in. Beneath the iron tangle of the elevated tracks, I found this moment—a stretch of shadow and steel, pierced by patches of light and the blur of a passerby. I was drawn to the repetition of the columns, the textures of the rivets, and the layered rhythm of urban life moving through it all. This image captures what I love about photographing cities: the tension between structure and motion, permanence and passing.
"The Loop 7"
Chicago, IL, 2015
This image is part of my ongoing exploration of Chicago’s Loop—where iron and concrete meet humanity in motion. I was drawn to the symmetry of the bridge’s repeating rivets and shadows, but it was the couple walking arm in arm that gave the frame its heartbeat. In a city defined by its scale and structure, it’s these quiet, fleeting human moments that hold everything together. The Loop may seem all steel and grit, but sometimes, if you’re paying attention, you catch something softer moving through it.
"The Loop 8"
Chicago, IL, 2015
Late at night in the Loop, the city feels different—quieter, more introspective. I made this image on one of the bridges that cross the river, drawn to the geometry of rivets and girders, the way the light carved shapes into the darkness. A faint trace of a passerby drifted into the frame, just enough to remind me that even in stillness, the city breathes.
"Huron Mist"
Lake Huron, Michigan 2017
I was driving the Lake Huron shoreline when I came across this house, tucked into the trees and jutting out over the water like it had nowhere else to go. The waves were already rising and the sky was heavy with the weight of a coming storm. It felt like the house was holding its breath—worn, weathered, and somehow still standing. I was struck by the quiet resilience of it all, the way it seemed both defiant and vulnerable at the same time. This image is about that edge—between land and water, calm and chaos, endurance and erosion.