Winter in the Dolomites strips things back. The light is brief, the landscape feels quieter, and everything seems to exist in fewer tones. It felt like the right place to stop being deliberate and just try things.

I moved between black and white and colour without much of a plan. Some days I reached for black and white, letting the mountains become shape, shadow, and texture. Other times I stayed with colour, not to capture vibrancy, but to hold onto small traces of warmth — a lit window, a jacket against snow, the last hint of daylight before it disappeared.

What mattered wasn’t which film was “right,” but how each choice changed the way I looked. Black and white encouraged stillness and patience. Colour made me notice human details more — traces of life in an otherwise subdued place. Switching between them kept me present, attentive, and open to the moment rather than locked into an idea.

There’s something freeing about allowing yourself to experiment without needing a conclusion. No verdict, no favourite — just the satisfaction of having paid attention and let the place shape the work.

In winter, in the Dolomites, that felt like enough.