Whenever I see a horse and get close enough, it always begins the same. They want to smell me, so I extend a hand first. There’s a pause, a breath, and then almost always they turn and look me in the eye.
It feels like a right of passage — not something you earn once, but every time you step into their space. The horse decides if you belong there.
Horses are wise. They don’t speak, but their eyes do. If you stand still long enough, you’ll see stories reflected there — of dust, of pasture, of the generations who worked alongside them.
This photograph is part of my Silver Gelatin Series, a body of low key black-and-white studies I’m shaping for release later this year. In these frames, I’m chasing not the spectacle, but the stillness. The kind of presence only a horse can teach you.
