The camera I carry has a secret. It has been modified - converted, technically speaking - to record light that human eyes cannot see. Sensitive to only shades of red, and beyond. Where you see an ordinary tree, it sees something closer to a dream: silver-white foliage, darkened skies, a world that has been quietly present all along, just at a frequency we were never wired to notice. I think of it as a more honest instrument.

I came to this work through an unlikely combination of obsessions. Forty-two years of Buddhist practice taught me to look past the surface of things - to notice what's actually here before the story we tell about it takes over. A career spent developing Optical Coherence Tomography, a miniature infrared imaging system now used in ophthalmology and cardiology, taught me that the most interesting things are often invisible to ordinary light. And a lifetime of noticing that a branching artery and a branching tree are drawing the same picture in different materials left me convinced that the world is more coherent - and more strange - than it first appears. Psychologists have a word for this: apophenia. I prefer to think of it as paying attention.

What I'm after in the images is something quiet: serenity and geometry, the serpentine conversation between water and stone, the calm that lives just underneath the noise of things. The shifted tonalities of infrared are very good at finding that. I'm not inventing a mood. I'm just turning up the volume on one that was already there.

"I'm just trying to make poetry from the evidence." - Arthur Miller