Ethan creates multiple-exposure panoramas alongside stills of everyday life to explore the dissonance felt during periods of transition. Lighthouse (2024–present) reconstructs a fragmented world, capturing the fleeting beauty often overlooked by younger generations in their search for fulfillment.
I’m standing on a rocky shore. I can smell the salt and seaweed. The warm wind swirls around me but all I feel is the tickle of the ocean between my toes. It’s high tide and pitch black out besides the haunting beam that blasts from the lonesome lighthouse in the distance. Each time it finds me, I feel afraid. Afraid of being found out. But what is left to be afraid of? Here I am, standing on an empty beach at night. Waiting, wishing for a sunrise–yet every time the lighthouse shines its golden beam upon me, I find myself begging for the darkness again. I couldn’t even handle the sunrise if I wanted to, so I give up. I close my eyes and embrace the eternal night. I notice the tide pulling out. I hear crabs rushing around between the crash of each wave. I breathe in deeply and feel grateful that this is the other side after all. It’s not so bad. I even begin to look forward to the fleeting glow of the lighthouse. I realize it’s been a friend all along, just trying to say hello. Then all of a sudden, something is different. The colors around me are changing. The ocean turns from indigo to cobalt and the soft stars melt into this periwinkle hue. The lighthouse goes dark and I begin to worry, but I see this strange reflection rippling throughout the current below. I look closer and see every part of me radiating the light of a million suns. I became the thing I feared the most and I never looked better.
