A Glimpse Through My Lens

Shadows sliding over arches like they own the place. The way the light decides who gets noticed and who waits.

Geometry holding its breath until the orange tree leans in and ruins the symmetry in the best way. I took this because restraint is beautiful—until life interrupts it with color, and suddenly it’s perfect.

A hedge framed like living sculpture, teaching me you don’t always need to touch to feel the shape of something.

Stone done right, tree playing sculptor, doors insisting on being noticed.

Clay stealing the spotlight under a sky so vivid it feels edited.

Golden hour doing what it does best—turning ordinary into something you want to remember.

Shadows turning metal into lace.
Proof that even the hardest things can feel delicate when light gets involved.

Terracotta underfoot, palm in the middle, arches framing sky like they’ve been waiting for it.

Every step a pattern, every pattern a memory. A reminder that repetition doesn’t have to mean the same thing twice.

Tile catching light like it’s telling you where to go. Every step an invitation.

Arches throwing shadows like they know exactly what they’re doing.

One perfect pop of red against a wall too calm to compete.

That curve, that shadow, an architectural side-eye you can’t ignore.

Every bottle, chair, rug earning its place while the light waits for no one.

Every tile knows a secret.
The higher you climb, the better the view gets.

The kind of reminder you carry with you the rest of the day. It just needs a wall big enough to hold it.

Sun, shadow, and a plant with more attitude than half the people you’ve met. nature designs better than we do—and isn’t afraid to show it.

The best spaces don’t just look good, they make people stay. That’s the kind of design I’m here for.

A red facade so rich it makes the shadow of the tree feel intentional.

Striped umbrellas, dappled light, and a tree planted dead-center, balance without boredom.

Spirals of yellow staircases under a sky strung with lights. Drama meets precision.

Lake Tahoe’s way of reminding me that even the most utilitarian shapes can feel like sculpture when they meet a still, snowy shore.

One side winter, the other reflection.
A perfect example of how a single line, natural or designed, can shift your perspective instantly.

Design loves a vanishing point. Here, it’s not about arrival, it’s about the discipline of leaving open space ahead.

The weight of evergreens grounded by rock. Every home needs this balance, rooted and enduring, with just enough wildness left in place.

A beach umbrella waiting for summer, framed by lodge architecture and pine silhouettes. The kind of seasonal pause that reminds me how context transforms design.

A cabin half-hidden behind bark and snow. I’m drawn to how framing changes what you notice, whether it’s a doorway or a design concept.

Icicles against a warm interior shadow line. Nature’s own trim work, proof that scale, proportion, and light are everything.

Where glass meets timber and the sound of water is part of the architecture. The kind of symmetry nature doesn’t mind sharing with design.

Snow melting into moss, wood meeting water, proof that contrast is the most natural design principle there is.

A quiet curve through wet stone and evergreen, an invitation to slow down before you arrive.

An early morning climb through Las Catalinas, where every corner feels like it was built to slow you down and make you look up.

The kind of street that makes you want to walk without a map, just following the curve until it opens up to something unexpected.

Even the smallest spaces in Las Catalinas hold moments of intentional design, where rock, plant, and light meet in quiet harmony.

A glimpse into Casa Chameleon, where warm wood, stone, and soft light promise an evening you’ll wish could last a little longer.

Sun-warmed sandstone stacked by hand, still standing against wind, time, and everything in between.

A cut in the rock, framing not just the desert, but every life that’s walked it before us.

Weathered wood, red earth, and the kind of craftsmanship built to last longer than the desert sun.

The Colorado River carving its way through the canyon floor, slow, steady, and unstoppable.

A weathered beam frames the canyon’s vastness, reminding you that even our strongest structures are fleeting here.

One lone stalk stands guard at the edge, rooted in desert resilience, staring out at a horizon without end.

Guadalajara, Jalisco

I stood there longer than I meant to, watching how every brick caught the last light differently—some warm, some almost black. It hit me how one color (that relentless blue) can make something massive feel intimate, and how the right contrast turns a wall into a story.

Tapalpa, Jalisco

This façade captures the kind of texture play I look for in interiors. The natural variations in color and finish keep it grounded, while the precise masonry work shows how repetition and proportion can create quiet drama.

Guadalajara, Jalisco

Stonework that frames the day, ornate yet solid. I admired it for the way depth and relief create natural shadow play, the kind you can’t fake with paint.

Guadalajara, Jalisco

Morning light spilling over layered textures, ceramic, paper, foam—each telling its own material story. I took it for the way the neutrals play against the crisp white, like a moodboard you can sip.

Uruapan, Michoacan

A pink facade, weathered but confident, flanked by neutrals that make it effortlessly beautiful. Look at that balance of symmetry and imperfection—proof that patina and proportion matter more than polish.