Which got me thinking. What is travel, anyway? Whenever I’m asked where I’ve travelled, I always rattle off a list of places and then qualify my reply by indicating that any trips taken when I still lived with my parents don’t really count — that vacation in the Philippines when I was 11, for example, or that week in England when I was 15. After all, I didn’t get to choose those destinations, and I certainly didn’t get as much from them as I would have as an autonomous grown-up. But I always talk about work travel as though it’s “real” travel, although in fact I’m no more free to choose my destinations than as I was as a kid. So what’s the deal? I think it’s because I’m always travelling with a purpose now; making photographs.
Unfortunately the world simply looks better to me through a viewfinder. I rarely go anywhere without a camera.
Oh well... I am what I am and that's all that I am...