When I was five,

I asked my parents to play the piano.

`This is me at like 2-3 but rock with me haha`

I don’t remember why,
but I’m grateful I did.

I was never that… “good”.

Even now, I can’t sight-read music.

I had to memorize each song,
play by repetition,
turning notes into muscle memory.

I could read the sheet,
but translating it?

Hearing it, feeling it, playing it instantly—

never clicked.

My mind wrapped around the theory,

but not the flow.

I’d sit there, dissecting note by note,
discovering the song like I was piecing together a map.

Patterns would emerge,
and through hours of practice,
I’d memorize it, play it from memory.

The sheet music was just a guide,
a reminder of what came next,
but I wasn’t really reading it live.

I wasn’t feeling it.

I was disconnected.

The same story played out with the trombone,
back in high school band.

Only one staff to read,
but still, I was grasping for rhythm,
finding my way through repetition.

But here’s the thing—
I don’t regret it.

It gave me rhythm,
a foundational understanding of music,
the kind that sticks in your bones.

Even if it didn’t come naturally,
it taught me to listen,

to find the beat in everything.

This was me with the piano and trombone,
until I stopped practicing at sixteen,
when something else caught my eye.

Graffiti

Graffiti was raw creation,

a world where experimentation had no rules,
no sheet music.

It was the spark of a new era.

Different hand styles led to urban exploration,
which led to Photoshop,

where reality could bend under my fingers,
reshaped by my own creativity.

A MacBook webcam, YouTube tutorials—

I was building foundations.

Foundations that would evolve into my design ethos today.

Then my best friend had an idea:

“Let’s start a clothing line.”

Months later,
we had our first collection,
but no cash to share it with the world.

My friend’s dad handed us a professional Nikon.

And just like that,
photography found me.

I didn’t know what I was doing,
the photos weren’t great,
but something clicked.

Something I couldn’t shake.
I wanted to learn, to explore.

I needed a camera that wouldn’t break the bank,
something manual, something I could grow with.

I chose the Canon G11,

and that decision became my first step into a world

that felt… natural.

The camera wasn’t a teacher;
it was an extension.

The fundamentals came alive,
lessons learned and forgotten,
like a connection built in a past life.

This wasn’t piano.

This was instinct.

DECADE and a half later,
I find myself on set,
in the zone

feeling what I could never feel with the piano.

No thinking. Just flow.

Knowing exactly what I need,
what dials to twist,
what settings to change.

I’m not dissecting the notes anymore.

The playing flows out of me,
a second nature connection,
a language that doesn’t need translation.

It’s not just an instrument,
it’s a way to connect,
to express,

to reach people in a way that feels… extraordinary.

Looking back,
I see pianos and cameras all over my life.

People or ideas I’ve chased,
that don’t come naturally.

Things that feel forced, that feel heavy.

I call those my “PIANOS.”

The things that feel right,
that flow effortlessly,
that connect with my skillset,
my energy,
my growth.

THOSE are the “CAMERAS.”

Putting in 10,000 hours on those—
it feels like a gift,

a cheat code,

like I was meant for it.

The pursuit itself is a dream come true.

MORE “CAMERAS” | LESS “PIANOS”