Complimentary worldwide shipping on orders over $400 · No import tariffs for most countries

0

Your Cart is Empty

The air before dawn was thick with sandalwood and stone.  My breath slowed as I entered the gopura, matching the rhythm of monks passing ahead.  The statue stood waiting—eight arms unmoving, sequins catching the last star of night.  His smile had not changed in centuries.

He did not look at me.  But presence has weight.  It settled just behind my ribs—where memory keeps its oldest keys.  Some moments cannot be framed; only received.  I positioned the tripod not to act, but to listen.  One long exposure became a vow.

In the darkroom, I shaped the silence with chiaroscuro.  Not to replicate the moment—but to honour its hush.

 

The sequins held night’s last star.
A monk passed, barefoot, unnoticed.
His saffron robe touched air like wind through silk.

Stone remembers patience.
Light offered nothing; it waited.
Then the shutter—and the statue—
did not move,
but something eternal did.

His smile remains.
Not joy, nor sorrow.
Just the balance that outlives both.


Also in Library

Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
The Weight of Light

3 min read

In the hush before dawn, light gathers until waiting becomes prayer.
Long exposure teaches surrender — to breathe with time, to let the unseen complete the image.
What remains on film is not possession, but trust made visible.

Read More
The Silence Between Temples
The Silence Between Temples

3 min read

Between one breath and the next, the world holds its pulse in silence.
Here, between temples, devotion hums without voice—light becoming memory, memory becoming air.
Step softly into the space where sound has already bowed,
and feel the sacred linger in what remains unspoken.

Read More
Hands of the Sculptor — The Craft as Meditation
Hands of the Sculptor — The Craft as Meditation

1 min read

In the hush of the galleries, the sculptor listens rather than strikes.
Each breath, each measured blow, opens silence a little further.
Unfinished reliefs reveal the moment when mastery becomes meditation—
when patience itself is carved into being,
and the dust that falls at a mason’s feet becomes the residue of prayer.

Read More