Where the Dust Settles Softly

I photograph cowboys on horseback not to capture them, but to let them slip just out of reach—blurry, ephemeral, as if remembered through gauze or dust-lit dreams. Where motion smudges into time and soft light brushes across dust and denim, I find a different kind of truth—one that speaks in whispers, not declarations. The rugged sinew of the sport, the grit of man and beast, finds its quiet counterpart in the blurred edges and muted tones that veil them—like ghosted strokes of an oil painting fading in golden twilight. There’s a hush in the gallop, a reverence in the blur—the masculine resolve of the rider balanced by the tender way my lens allows them to dissolve into the landscape, as if time itself is exhaling. I lean into that softness, into the painterly—the yin to their yang—not to tame the wild, but to show its soul. These are not photographs, but fleeting impressions; less a record, more a remembrance of something already vanishing.