Press play.
That's the whole pitch.
A few weddings, in the places that held them.
The vows you'll half-remember.
Notes from the places I film.
Light, nerve, and the small things that decide whether a wedding survives as a film.
A video keeps the inventory.
A film keeps the feeling.
what you'll forget — The toast you laughed too hard to hear.
what stays — Your mother's hands before the first dance.
what only a film holds — The minute nobody photographed, that you'd give the album back for.
Years from now you won't rewatch it. You'll go back to it.
Act fast. Burn like it's the last.
Mostly I work alone; when the day needs it, a small team I've picked by hand. The aim never changes: the room forgets I'm there, and stays a wedding.
"A thousand cameras were pointed at the day. One was paying attention."
Alone, or with a hand I trust. Either way — a wedding, never a set.
Alone or with a small team I've picked by hand, depending on the day and the package we settle. I take few weddings a year, and the ones I take get all of me.
Quietly serious about glass and light.
- 01Cinema bodies, clean in the dark where the real moments live.
- 02Fast primes — available light first.
- 03The camera moves like a guest, not a rig.
- 04Dual-recorded, backed up before I sleep — every day.
Gear is the floor, not the point.
Invite me to film it.
Tell me where you're marrying, and what you're afraid of forgetting.