From humble wooden frames, life unfurls, a vibrant tapestry against the sky. Each berry, a droplet of crimson poetry, whispers of roots intertwined, community’s embrace, and a defiant beauty blooming in our climate’s ever-shifting breath.
Weathered crosses rise from snowdrifts like prayers etched into wind, quietly watching the horizon. This is not just a place of rest — it is a place of return.
Sun and ice. We stand here, on the edge of forever. Where does the light lead us?
Rubber and frost meet, right here. Where have we been? Where are we going? That horizon...
Oil heats our homes, but it also represents a cycle that’s melting the ground beneath us.
Ice rises like fingers sculpted in a moment of thaw—sharp, delicate, reaching toward the low sun. In this blur of focus, what is foreground and what is memory? A crystallized tension sits between presence and erosion, the dirt and grains trapped inside as witness. Nothing here is still, though everything looks like it might be.
My photography is a reflection of the world I see, the world I'm growing up in, as an Inuit youth who grew up in Nunavut.
