Press play. That's the whole pitch.
A handful of weddings, in the places that hosted them.
Between a video and a film is everything you actually felt.
One side records the day. The other keeps it alive.
Notes from the places I film.
Short pieces on light, nerve, and the small things that turn a wedding into a film worth keeping.
A video is an inventory. A film is a feeling.
A video remembers what happened. A film remembers how it felt.
A video you watch. A film puts you back in the room.
Anyone with a camera can record it. Almost no one can make you feel it.
You'll watch a video twice. You'll live inside a film for years.
Act fast. Burn like it's the last.
Mostly I work alone; when a day asks for it, a small team I've chosen by hand. The aim never changes — that the room keeps forgetting 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.
Some days I move through alone; some ask for a small team I've chosen by hand. Which it is depends on the day and on the package we settle — I won't pretend otherwise. I take few weddings a year, and the ones I take get the whole 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. Let's see what happens when I film it.