I always tell people that I am a rigger who photographs, not a photographer that ties. There’s a whole world of rope I never photograph. Sessions that unfold in silence and stillness, outside the eye of the lens, where the knots are not arranged for composition and the lighting is whatever the room gives me. These are not the ropes tied for show. They’re not for social media. They’re not for anyone else. They are for when rope becomes an experience shared only between two people, with no audience, no edits, and no evidence.

Without the lens, the rhythm shifts. Rope lingers where it wants to linger. Pauses stretch until they dissolve into breath. I’m not thinking about angles or framing, I'm thinking about the way her shoulders settle when she exhales or how the rope feels against her skin. Without the camera, my awareness sharpens in different ways. The silence becomes a living thing, the connection takes root in places that can’t be photographed, and the rope starts speaking in a language meant only for the two of us.

Every time the rope comes out, there are really three journeys taking place. Hers lived from the inside, through sensation, emotion, and memory. Mine lived from the outside, through observation, intention, and care. And then the one we walk together, shaped by the push and pull of those two separate paths. Without the camera, I can sink more deeply into all three at once. I’m not dividing my attention between capturing the moment and living it; I’m fully inside it. I feel her subspace unfolding in real time, the way her breath slows or her shoulders soften. I notice my own altered state as well. The clarity, the steadying focus, the way the rest of the world falls away until there’s only the rope and the person in it. And in that shared space, without the presence of the lens, we meet in a place neither of us could have reached alone.

There are times in rope when I know, without question, that the camera will never come up. Not because the scene isn’t beautiful, it almost always is, but because beauty isn’t the point. Some moments are meant to be lived in, not looked at. They belong to the current moving between us, to the quiet that doesn’t need documenting, to the way her eyes meet mine when she’s somewhere far away but still tethered to me. The moments stretch longer. The rope moves when it needs to, not when the shutter is ready. There’s no rush to capture anything, the only urgency is to stay present. In that slower rhythm, there’s room for more to emerge. A flogger resting nearby can be lifted without breaking the flow. A cane leaned in the corner can find its place in the rhythm, its sharp voice punctuating the quiet. The warmth of wax can be introduced, drop by deliberate drop, tracing heat across skin already alive with sensation. The hum and crackle of a violet wand can weave into the scene, subtle or sudden, a reminder that surrender is never just one thing. These tools enter when they feel right,not when the lighting does, folding seamlessly into the rope until everything is one unbroken experience. And in that space, there’s a depth I can sink into with her that no photograph could ever hold. These are not the moments for perfect framing. They are for being there, completely, until the rope comes off and the world slowly comes back. And when it does, what remains isn’t a photograph, it’s the memory of having been there together, without anything in between.

The rope you never see still finds its way into the rope you do. Every quiet, unrecorded scene adds another layer to the way I tie when the camera is present. I carry those slower rhythms forward, the way I can listen for shifts in her body without looking for them. The intimacy of the unseen work deepens my awareness in the photographed moments, letting me read more with less, trust more with less, and know when to hold still instead of moving toward the next picture. Those private sessions sharpen my ability to capture the real connection, not just the shape of the tie.

Because my circle stays small, even the sessions without the camera are still part of the same shared journey. They’re not separate from the work you see, they’re a continuation of it, another step on the same road we’ve been walking together. The trust we build in those quiet spaces comes back with us when the camera returns, making every photographed moment richer, more grounded, more alive. Whether or not the lens is between us, that journey is ongoing. And the rope you see is always carrying the memory of the rope you never will.

THE ROPE YOU NEVER SEE