I have carried a camera for as long as I can remember. My first was a plastic Fisher-Price film camera with two handles. Since then, photography has become about learning how to pay attention and a way to stay surprised.

A camera gives you permission to move through the world differently. It encourages curiosity. It asks you to slow down, it teaches you to notice.

Over the years I have come to believe that the photographs we value most are rarely the loudest or most spectacular. They are often the quiet ones. A fleeting expression. The way someone reaches for another person's hand. A glance across a room. Small moments that seem ordinary at the time, but become extraordinary as life moves on.

Weddings have taught me this. Beneath the celebration, the flowers and the ceremony, there is something much more meaningful taking place. Families gathering. Friendships that have lasted decades. People sharing a moment in time that can never be repeated in quite the same way again.

I photograph these moments with as little ego as possible. Not because I think the photographer should disappear, but because I believe the photograph should remain true to the people in front of the camera, the actual memory. My role is not to manufacture meaning, but to recognise it when it appears.

These photographs become more valuable over time. It becomes evidence. A small piece of history. Proof that something happened, that someone was here, that a moment mattered.

My hope is not that you continue to look at hundreds of photographs. It is that a handful stay with you for the rest of your life. That they find their way onto walls, into books and into the hands of future generations. That years from now they can still transport you back to a particular afternoon, a particular embrace, a particular person.

A good photograph is one that grows more valuable with every passing year. Those are the photographs I wish to make.