A Photographer Shaped by Wilderness
I grew up between two worlds—French by land, Canadian by heart. My childhood in the South of France was spent not by the Mediterranean, but in the shadow of the Alps, where my father taught me the art of seeing.
The Dawn of the Chamois
I was nine years old when my father woke me at 3:00 AM. No explanation, just "Come." We hiked through darkness with headlamps, climbing higher and higher in Parc des Écrins as dawn approached. He was teaching me patience, the kind you need to witness something rare.
We needed to be as high as we could before daylight. That's when they come down—the chamois—descending from their rocky hideaways to drink and graze. As dawn was breaking, a mother and her baby appeared so close I could see every detail of their coats, their breath in the cold air.
My father taught me that day that animals see us long before we see them. That the wilderness is never empty, even when it appears so. Today, when I photograph a landscape, I know I'm not alone—invisible creatures move through my frames, hidden from the human eye but forever present.
And that's exactly how it should be.
Seven Countries. Three Continents. Ten Homes.
I've lived as an expatriate for 18 years, moving every 4-5 years across the globe—from London to Norway's frozen fjords, from Singapore's tropical heat to the rugged Scottish Highlands, to the scorching sun of Texas, and back to France. Each place revealed a part of myself I hadn't known.
My photography journey began on a solo trip (Fiji / New Zealand / Australia, and Thailand), where I took a three-month break from London. In Fiji, surrounded by turquoise water and untouched beauty, I realized something profound: seeing wasn't enough. I had to capture it to share it.
This was before the digital age—I printed photos, scanned them at internet cafes, and emailed them to friends. The urge to share what I witnessed was so powerful, I couldn't stop.
The Wisdom of a Sapphire Seller
While living in Southeast Asia for five years with my husband and young children, I spent time in Burma, well known for its sapphire gems. One day, examining a stone, the Burmese seller said something I've never forgotten:
"Don't choose one too dark. The light in Asia is special—your sapphire will look darker in Europe."
He was right. That conversation changed how I see light, color, and the way landscapes transform across continents. Asian light has a luminosity that European light doesn't possess. Understanding this shaped my entire approach to photography—recognizing that light itself has a geography.
Scotland: The Lesson of Inappropriate Clothing
When we moved from tropical Singapore to Scotland, I experienced what I call "thermal and chromatic shock." Everything was gray—the sky, the sea, the stone buildings. I struggled at first.
Then I found a Scottish-Gaelic saying (could also be applied to Norway ;-): "There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing."
That simple phrase was a game-changer. Scotland taught me lessons I never expected:
- That I could wake at 3:00 AM to shoot sunrise at Dunnottar Castle
- That I had a hidden love for driving through snowstorms to capture highland ponies
- That a single puffin on a cliff could help me overcome my fear of heights
- That muddy boots and wet feet are simply the price of the shot
The biggest lesson? Life is what you make of it. So I decided to turn mine into a photographic journey.
Norway and the Quietness of Snow
Norway awakened something primal in me—a deep, visceral love for snow. Growing up in the South of France with the Mediterranean at my doorstep, I should have been drawn to beaches and sun. Instead, I've always craved mountains, northern countries, and especially winter.
People laugh when it snows. "Let's go inside and get cozy!" they say.
I'm the one pulling on my boots, grabbing my camera, and heading out the door.
There's a blissful quietness in snow—it absorbs sound, creating a meditative silence. And the footprints tell stories: we are never alone. The animals see us long before we see them.
Maybe it's my Canadian roots. Maybe it's something deeper. Either way, snow is where I feel most alive.
Utah: Cowboys, Dust, and Infinite Silence
Utah offered me a different kind of wilderness—raw, sunburned, and endlessly open. I spent time photographing real cowboys, men shaped by dust, wind, and long days under an unforgiving sky. There were no mountains pressing in, no forests to hide behind—just vast plains, red earth, and horizons that seemed to stretch forever. The emptiness was overwhelming in the most beautiful way. Out there, silence wasn’t soft like snow; it was vast and absolute. Watching cowboys move through that landscape—quiet, grounded, deeply connected to the land—felt like witnessing a disappearing world. That American wilderness, so stripped back and honest, was a total bliss for me. It taught me that solitude doesn’t always whisper; sometimes it stands tall, wide open, and fearless.
My Ultimate Shot Recipe
If I had to write down my photographic process, it would look like this:
Ingredients:
- A strong dose of wilderness
- Rugged, untouched beauty
- Fully charged camera batteries
- Waterproof hiking boots
- A generous sprinkling of snowflakes
Instructions: Mix all ingredients together. Hike until you can't feel your fingers. Shoot until darkness falls. Repeat.
You'll know it's done when your hands are numb and your heart is full.
Why I Photograph
Before photography, I felt a quiet frustration—I couldn't find the words to describe what I'd seen or felt. No language seemed adequate. Photography gave me that language.
It allows me to live moments fully, knowing I can preserve them forever and share them with a single image. It's contemplation with purpose. It's meditation with a shutter.
Being this contemplative has a downside, though. I've missed countless perfect light opportunities because I was lost in daydreams, watching the world unfold around me.
But that's who I am. And my photography is simply an extension of that—a way of seeing the world through a lens of reverence, patience, and wonder.
What Drives My Work
My love for wilderness, empty spaces, and rugged beauty shapes everything I create.
I'm drawn to places where civilization fades, where nature speaks its truth without human interference. The Scottish Highlands. The solitude of the American West. The French Alps. Snow-covered forests where the only sound is your own breathing.
These are the landscapes that move me. These are the moments I capture.
Moving Forward
My journey continue on the European continent. Where next? North!!!
But wherever I go, my motto remains the same:
"Follow your instinct. Get out there. Capture the moment."
And most importantly: Support the artist.
Featured in Nomadict Magazine | Based in France | Available for commissions
