My day starts at 4 am
The day begins the night before, with a quiet reverie of what I imagine the morning will bring. I think of the tree by the beach up north—a tree I’ve been documenting for years. Each morning, I drive the 40-odd minutes down empty streets, perhaps a little mad, but driven by the obsession of morning light, which remains, without question, the best.
The silence is only ever broken by the waves crashing on the shore and the occasional passerby—someone out for a swim or a jog, as if they too are chasing something unspoken.
Shooting film in the morning feels much like the time itself: slow, random, and deliberate. The simple act of reaching for a roll of film, selecting a stock, loading it, winding it, composing the shot, and pressing the shutter button—all of it mirrors that feeling. Every step is intentional, yet unpredictable, much like the moment I’m trying to preserve.
When I learned that the tree was no longer there, I was devastated. It took time to accept, to understand that nothing in this world is permanent. We’re all here, just for a moment. All I have now are the photos I’ve taken over the years, memories preserved in frames. They may one day become part of the Nakakita project, a body of work I’ve been building over time.
Even the emptiness where the tree once stood might become a part of the project—a reminder that nothing lasts forever. It’s a prompt to plant something new every day and watch it grow, just as we must grow in our own way.
Footnote: While I’ve always found solace in words and images, I am however open to exploring new mediums in the future—audio, video, or a combination of them on this platform. There is so much more control when you control the content and have tools at hand.