It was the late 1970s, and I found myself in a quiet library, flipping through the pages of a photography magazine. That is when I first encountered images from the now-famous "New Topographics" exhibit in New York. These photographs shocked me with their stark, unremarkable subject matter—mundane scenes that felt almost defiant in their ordinariness.

What began as confusion turned into curiosity, and then, unexpectedly, admiration. As I studied the images, a subtle beauty emerged—a beauty rooted in the everyday and the overlooked. The photographs did not shout for attention; they whispered, urging me to pause, to truly see. They revealed a world I had unknowingly trained myself to ignore, a world shaped by the quiet elegance of the ordinary. It was as though they insisted, "Look at me. Study me. Take my picture."

In that moment, my perspective shifted, and I set out to create photographs that was in harmony of this newfound way of seeing.

Those early attempts were humbling. Equipped with my Nikon F2 loaded with black & white film, I approached my work with the conservatism typical of the time, mindful of each frame. Yet my images lacked the impact I had envisioned. They felt pedestrian, more like casual snapshots than reflections of the poetry I saw in my mind’s eye.

It was disheartening. By the late 1980s, frustrated with my inability to replicate what I admired, I began to slow my efforts. My dream of creating New Topographics-inspired work sat quietly on the shelf, waiting.

Years later, on a chilly October morning, I ventured into a small town armed with a new digital camera. The streets were wrapped in fog, and I roamed aimlessly, capturing scenes as they struck me. This morning, I approached the visual world not with the weight of expectation but with the joy of experimentation.

When I reviewed my images that afternoon, something caught me off guard. Several of the photographs seemed to embody the spirit of New Topographics. There was only one problem—they were digital and in color.

For years, I had attempted to imitate the black-and-white aesthetic of the original New Topographics photographers. But as I revisited the work of Stephen Shore, a realization struck me: I was suppressing my true creative instincts. Color was not just a detail—it was central to my vision. I had been trying to translate my vision into a language that was not my own. That foggy morning, I finally began to see my work for what it could be: an authentic expression of my voice, not a replication of someone else’s.

The past decades have been an ongoing process of discovery and refinement. Through trial, error, and persistence, I have come to understand the importance of embracing my unique perspective. Photography taught me to find beauty in unexpected places, and it is my hope that the images I have created will inspire others to pause, look closely, and see the extraordinary within the ordinary.