broken glass

late sunday afternoon

sunday afternoon

untitled

isabelles

kids

mont royal

snow

winter doesn't seem to end in this icy city. rain, snow, sleet, hail, ice. this isn't even winter, its hell. there is a violent wind at my window that makes the great outdoors sound like a racetrack. its been snowing for days now and yet another arctic wind is set to come sweeping through our sleepy town and freeze everything in its godless path. ugh.  the hairs that vacate my nostrils do not stand a chance, my long underwear are long for the sewing machine, and my winter jacket is in dire need of help. ugh.

portraits

deserts

The silence of Death Valley is surreal. Our voices travelled the lengths of our noses and were thus stifled by the vast open surrounding us. We howled at the sun drenched sky, kicked desert rocks and clapped our dusty hands together. we shattered clumps of hardened clay and dirt with our bare feet. Still nothing. No sound carried with it an echo or resonance. they bounced back at us and were broke.