The Last Summer at Repulse
Once upon a coastline—where colonial officers strolled in linen suits, and socialites sipped cocktails beneath striped parasols—there stood Repulse Bay, a seaside retreat laced with the remnants of Empire and elegance.
This series captures the lingering charm of Hong Kong’s southern shore, where the past still flickers like sunlight on water. In the 1920s, Repulse Bay was more than a beach; it was a statement. The legendary Repulse Bay Hotel welcomed the elite with its Art Deco grace, a place where letters were written by hand and time moved at the pace of jazz.
Now, all that remains are shadows—whispers of white balustrades, salt-kissed blooms, and an afternoon haze too golden to forget. Children build sandcastles where British soldiers once patrolled. Lovers linger where fortunes once danced.
The Last Summer at Repulse is not just a tribute to a beach. It’s a postcard from a dream—faded at the edges, but never fully lost.
Window Seat Stories
They say New York has Fifth Avenue. Paris has Rue Saint-Honoré. But darling, that morning, I had a corner table and an orange trash bin in Hong Kong.
While sipping my latte on a narrow window ledge, I wasn’t just brunching—I was front row at the runway of real life. Tourists, locals, lovers, loners… every passerby was a character, every step a scene.
Window Seat Stories is my love letter to stylish solitude. A reminder that sometimes, the best outfit is confidence, and the best view isn’t the skyline—it’s the sidewalk.
Because when the city struts by, all you need is good lighting, a camera, and eggs Benedict.
I
11:37 a.m.
II
11:46 a.m.
III
11:49 a.m
IV
11:50 a.m
Neon Gods and Paper Walls
In Hong Kong, nothing truly vanishes—it simply layers. Graffiti faces stare from concrete with the audacity of Gotham, while silk banners sway above alleyways like red lanterns in a forgotten opera. This city does not choose between East and West; it dares to embrace both—without apology, without hesitation.
Neon Gods and Paper Walls wanders through the backstreets and bold strokes of a city that speaks multiple tongues in a single breath. A Joker smirks from a mural beside a Cantonese shopfront untouched by time. A wide-eyed girl, painted in charcoal and blush, whispers something about memory—perhaps yours, perhaps the city’s.
Here, street art isn’t rebellion. It’s reverence, in disguise. It’s Hong Kong’s newest dialect—spray-painted and untranslatable, but always understood.
Like Gatsby’s parties, it’s chaotic, colorful, and strange—but beneath the shimmer, there’s an aching depth. An elegance that never quite fades. A city that keeps reinventing itself… by never letting go.
Champagne & Cigarettes
Two sides of Hong Kong, two shades of the same red lipstick.
In Central, neon reflections stretch like stilettos into the sky. Just steps from Lan Kwai Fong, the city flirts with old Hollywood—Marilyn and Audrey whispering over cocktails on a mural wall, while the skyscrapers wink like paparazzi flashes.
In Mongkok, it’s another kind of film. Wet pavement. Cheap motels. Rain-slick streets that remember every lover’s goodbye. This is Wong Kar Wai’s world—where time slows, colors bleed, and every corner feels like déjà vu.
Champagne & Cigarettes captures the city’s dual heartbeat: high heels and heartbreak. Glamour and grit. Always dramatic. Always iconic.
Where the Sidewalk Smells Like Coffee
In Tai Ping Shan Street, the air hums with espresso and acrylic paint. It’s the kind of place where people fall in love with art—and occasionally, with each other.
Every storefront tells a story. Every corner has a shadow you want to follow. Sunlight spills over vintage tiles and into indie galleries, where brushstrokes feel more like love notes than technique.
Where the Sidewalk Smells Like Coffee captures a slower rhythm of Hong Kong—the part that doesn’t shout, but whispers beautifully.
Fragments of a City That Never Pauses
I never meant to document a city. I just meant to remember it—before it slipped away.
Hong Kong isn’t loud if you listen closely. It speaks in stairwells and shadows, in the clink of a coffee spoon or the sound of heels brushing against pavement that’s been walked for decades. A place where bougainvillea spills over concrete, and time folds in tight corners.
These are not postcards. These are fragments. From beaches once lined with generals, to murals that flirt with Marilyn and memories. From rain-slick Mongkok streets where romance walks slowly, to window seats where strangers write the best scenes without knowing they’re being watched.
Somewhere between brunch and goodbye, I fell for the city again. Maybe not for what it was. But for how it made me feel—briefly, softly, like something I’d want to write down and forget just to rediscover later.
And maybe that’s what photography is. Not capturing the city… but catching yourself, looking back.
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