My Story

Some of my earliest memories are painted in photographs.

I was born in the 1980s, when cameras weren’t tucked into our pockets and memories weren’t measured in likes, views, or followers. My father was always the one behind the camera at family gatherings, documenting birthdays, holidays, and the ordinary moments that somehow became extraordinary with time. We would gather around photo albums worn soft at the edges, reliving stories through fading prints. On special occasions, the lights would go out and the slide projector would come on, casting family memories onto a wall while everyone sat together, laughing and remembering.

Back then, photographs felt sacred.

Fast forward to 2025.

What began as a simple photo walk to clear my head became the beginning of a journey that would change my life forever.

After a serious car accident, I found myself wandering the streets of Sydney with a camera in hand, searching for something I couldn’t quite name. I told myself I was just taking photographs. Looking back now, I realise I was searching for peace.

The accident had shaken far more than my body. It had rattled the foundations of my identity, my confidence, and my sense of purpose. Beneath the surface, a storm was brewing. I didn’t recognise it at the time, but I was slipping deeper into severe PTSD and a mental breakdown.

By Christmas, everything came crashing down.

I was admitted to hospital and then returned again in January 2026, spending almost two months there. It was one of the darkest seasons of my life. The world I had built around me had become unfamiliar, and for the first time, I was forced to stop running.

In that stillness, something unexpected happened.

I rediscovered photography.

Not the fast, disposable kind we consume every day, but the slow, deliberate craft of film photography.

There was something profoundly healing about it.

In a world obsessed with speed, film demanded patience.

Every frame mattered. Every click of the shutter carried intention. There was no instant preview, no endless stream of images to scroll through. Just 24 or 36 opportunities to pay attention.

To truly see.

As I learned to develop film, I found myself slowing down with it. The process became almost meditative. The anticipation of waiting for negatives to emerge. The quiet excitement of seeing an image come to life. The understanding that not every frame would be perfect—and that was okay.

It mirrored life itself.

We live in a time where technology promises connection, yet so many of us have never felt more disconnected. We document everything but experience very little. We chase approval through screens while our mental health quietly deteriorates in the background. We fill our phones with thousands of photographs, yet rarely stop long enough to appreciate a single one.

Film photography became my rebellion against that noise.

It taught me to slow down, breathe deeply, and become present again.

For sixteen years, I have worked as a tattoo artist, co-owning a studio here in Sydney alongside my brother and working with an incredible team of artists whom I consider family. Art has always been part of who I am. Yet after the accident, I tried to bury my pain beneath work, responsibility, and routine. I convinced myself I could simply push through.

But pain has a way of demanding to be heard.

Eventually, I reached a point where I couldn’t carry it any longer.

And it was there, at the end of myself, that I encountered something greater.

I found God.

In the middle of my brokenness, I discovered hope.

In the middle of darkness, I rediscovered creativity.

And somewhere along that journey, I stumbled across Cyanotype printing.

The moment I saw those deep indigo blues emerge from paper, something clicked. It felt like the perfect marriage of everything I loved: photography, craftsmanship, patience, storytelling, and art. Cyanotype allowed me to combine my photographic work with the composition and artistic influences I had developed over years of tattooing.

It became more than an art form.

It became part of my healing.

Every print carries a little of that story. A reminder that beauty can emerge from darkness. That slowing down can be revolutionary. That creativity can help rebuild what life has broken.

With the unwavering support of my beautiful wife, Sonia, along with the love of family and friends who stood beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own, The Indigo Pressroom was born.

My hope is that this space becomes more than a workshop or a studio.

I hope it becomes a place where people can slow down.

A place to create with their hands.

A place to connect with others.

A place to rediscover wonder.

And perhaps, like I did, a place to find a little healing along the way.

I look forward to welcoming you to The Indigo Pressroom and sharing this experience with you.