The Widelux F6B has been my companion for a decade now, a camera that feels less like a machine and more like a storyteller that walks beside me. Its panoramic frame taught me to see the world in wide sweeps, where even the smallest moment could open into something cinematic. The mechanical sweep of its lens doesn’t just record—it breathes, pulling in the horizon, the air, the gestures of people and places, the atmosphere of time passing.
From the very beginning, it was the panoramic format that drew me in. The Widelux felt like holding a movie still in my hands, echoing the widescreen worlds of films I return to—There Will Be Blood, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Blade Runner, Yojimbo. Those films taught me how much story a single frame could carry, and the Widelux gave me a way to bring that same expansiveness into my own practice. It influenced my painting as well—those long, stretching landscapes where I try to hold both place and story in one image.
I was first shown this camera by Miguel Gandert at UNM, who revealed its potential for documentary storytelling. Later, seeing Jeff Bridges use it as a way of preserving behind the scenes looks and moment affirmed its power. Since then, the Widelux has traveled with me across the world: a graveyard in Auckland where headstones leaned like silent characters; Antonio Marquez filling the water tank on his land in Southern Colorado, the sky bending around him; my father driving Rez roads in Laguna, where the land and our time together became inseparable.
There are the smaller, daily moments: mornings at Zendo Coffee, where laughter, conversation, and light filled the wide frame. Even mishaps became story—like the day my Subaru Forester was hauled onto a tow truck on the way to White Sands, transformed into an image both humorous and weighty when contrasted to the documentation of Petrol-Glyph. The Widelux has also been there for larger journeys: a road trip across the nation with fellow activists and artists, tunnels