In the Mood for Light
On the last day of 2024, as the world lingered between reflection and resolution, I found myself at our friend’s apartment in the Heights, Jersey City. The sunlight filtered through the window with that rare, winter kind of clarity—soft but steady, as if it had made a conscious decision to be kind. Nikita, their six-year-old boy, was playing with my children, and for a moment, time folded. I lifted my camera and began to photograph the scene: the golden light catching in the curve of his hair, the quiet intimacy of a family gathering as the year slipped away.
Photography, at its essence, is a dance with light. It’s what drew me to the art form, first in film and later in photography. But as I look back on my career—those editorial days spent traveling the globe—I’ve come to see how the light of a place isn’t just an ingredient. It’s a character.
Take Russia, where I grew up. The light there is a study in melancholy—gray, sad, often absent. It’s no surprise that Russian art, from Tolstoy’s novels to Zvyagintsev’s films, carries the weight of this shadow. Even our paintings, our winter landscapes, seem carved out of that dimness. I’ve always believed that light shapes culture, not just physically but emotionally. It gets under your skin, shapes the stories you tell, and defines how you see the world.
In my editorial days, when I worked as a creative producer on shoots across the globe, I discovered how much light could change my perspective. Each place I visited had its own light, and I began to notice how profoundly it influenced the imagery we created. In Madagascar, the light wasn’t sharp but misty, draping everything in a soft haze that felt otherworldly. In Iceland, it was almost like a whisper, delicate and fleeting, demanding you catch it before it vanished.
The Mediterranean, though—that light is legendary. In Greece, Italy, and Spain, it’s as if the sun holds everything in a golden embrace, giving life to the vibrant colors, the warmth of the people, and the rich traditions of their cultures. It’s no wonder their art feels so alive, so full of movement and joy.
And then there’s Istanbul in the snow—a memory I’ll carry with me forever. Snow in Istanbul doesn’t fall like it does in Russia. There, it’s not an erasure of color but an addition, layering itself over green trees that still hold remnants of summer. It’s magical, like something out of a novel by Orhan Pamuk, weaving the past and present into a single frame.
In New York, the light feels kinder, steadier, almost a constant companion. Here, it doesn’t just illuminate—it celebrates. I’ve come to love the way it fills the streets, the parks, even the winter mornings, as if offering a quiet reminder to look up. And yet, I also appreciate the darkness—the long winter nights that provide a different kind of rest, a pause that feels essential.
The light is never just about the technical—it’s emotional. It’s the silent collaborator in every story I tell, whether I’m capturing a wedding, a portrait, or a quiet afternoon with friends.
When I photograph here, in New York or New Jersey, I remind myself of how lucky I am to work in a place where the light feels like a gift. It’s not something to be taken for granted. After all, light doesn’t just illuminate—it transforms. It shapes not only the images we create but the lives we live, quietly guiding us toward beauty, memory, and meaning.
