For a significant portion of my adult life, I believed in a sovereign plan—one designed just for me, waiting to be discovered and fulfilled. It was my duty, as a Christian, to align myself with it, to revel in its certainty, to find my place within a grand, divine blueprint.
That was then. This is now.
Sovereignty, in my small world, has been replaced by serendipity and spontaneity. Significance has been replaced by magnificence. Divinity has been replaced by humanity.
It took a hell of a long time to get here, my whole life, but I’m, thankfully and gratefully, here, at this moment in time.
Yes, I am a humble product of evolution. Yes, I am dust in the wind. But even without a divine script guiding my steps, something deep within me tells me that I was made for this moment. Not by celestial decree, but by the beautiful randomness of existence, by the convergence of history, technology, and personal experience. I was born in the fullness of these times, perfectly positioned to embrace and celebrate photography in ways that were impossible just a few short decades ago.
Amen.
I say this without mysticism, without reliance on divinity. I say this as a practitioner of humanism, as someone who finds meaning not in a predestined path but in the choices I make, the passions I cultivate, and the work I pour my heart into. And photography—especially iPhone photography—is that work. It is my craft, my obsession, my way of making sense of the world.
There’s something remarkable about being alive at this moment, at this intersection of technology and artistry. Had I been born a century earlier, I might have been a large-format photographer, lugging around heavy gear, and waiting hours for exposures to develop. Had I been born a few decades earlier, I might have been a darkroom purist, watching images slowly emerge in chemical trays. But I was born in the right moment, in the era of the iPhone—when photography is always within arm’s reach, when the world’s most advanced camera fits in my pocket, when I can shoot, edit, and share my vision instantaneously.
The iPhone didn’t just change photography; it changed me. It stripped away the barriers between seeing and creating. It made photography more instinctual, more personal, more lyrical, and more beautiful. It allowed me to be fully present in the moment, to embrace the world as it is, without the burden of gear or the hesitation of preparation. This is why my approach to photography is autobiographical—because my images are not just about what I see; they are about how I see, how I experience life, and how I interact with the fleeting, extraordinary beauty of the everyday.
I am not here to fulfill a cosmic mission, but I am here, in this moment, in this life, with this camera. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything. I don’t need divine affirmation to know that I was made for this time, this craft, this journey. Photography is my language, my way of engaging with the world. The universe didn’t ordain this path for me—I chose it. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, at any other time, doing anything else.
I was made for this moment.
Click.
Jack.
