Photography found me before I found it.

When I was very young, my father put a camera in my hands. We developed black and white film in the hallway, watched images appear in the darkroom trays, and coloured the prints by hand with pencils. It wasn't just photography — it was magical.

When he passed away, the camera went quiet for a while. Life moved on. Two sons, a career in software development, the everyday noise of living. I still took pictures, but mostly point-and-click. The magic had gone somewhere else.

Then one afternoon in the garden, I noticed a bee on a flower. Really noticed it. I got as close as I could with what I had. Barely anything was sharp — just a sliver in focus, the rest dissolving into blur. But something had switched on. The feeling for macro was there, and it hasn't left since.

Part of what I love has nothing to do with the camera at all. Standing in Jægersborg Dyrehave at 4:30 in the morning as the first light breaks the horizon. Mist hanging in the damp air. Deer on their morning walk across the open fields, rabbits crossing the meadow. The only sound is what nature decided to say that morning. I haven't taken a single photo yet, and it's already worth it.

Getting a sharp image of an insect is a fantastic feeling — and it often takes a lot of photos just to get the one that's good enough to share. I often shoot focus brackets, a series of frames at tiny focus shifts, and stack them in post to reveal detail that's simply invisible to the naked eye in the field. Sometimes it works. When it does, it feels like finding something that was always there, just waiting to be seen.

I photograph across Europe — wherever the season and the light take me. My subjects are the ones most people walk straight past. I try to show you something you think you've seen a thousand times — but have you really?