The title comes from a memory. As a teenager, when LSD began to take hold, the first sign was always color — the world seemed to pixelate, every surface suddenly visible at the molecular level, saturated beyond what sober eyes could hold. I called it seeing colors. I have been chasing that quality of attention ever since.

We live in a world that has been quietly draining itself of color for decades. Researchers have documented it: the objects around us have gone from roughly 15% gray, black, and white two centuries ago to nearly 60% today. Cars, walls, phones, storefronts — the palette of daily life has contracted. We call it sophistication. What we have traded away is vitality.

The photographs in this series are a refusal of that consensus. They are my argument that color is not decoration — it is information, emotion, and memory made visible. The specific red of a cardinal in January snow, the gold of late afternoon light on a city street — these are not interchangeable. They are testimony. The world, beneath its greige veneer, remains extravagant.