There we were, at a busy intersection in Mumbai — myself and a small group of photographers. It was my fourth time in India, and I was participating in a photo workshop. Our local guide offered suggestions on where to explore, hoping we’d capture the city’s vibrancy and its constant motion. 

“If you go to the right of the intersection, you’ll find colorful markets — produce, housewares, and families everywhere. If you go to the left, you’ll see the industrial side of town — recycling yards, factories, blacksmiths, and more.” 

Without hesitation, I veered left. To my surprise, I was the only one in the group heading toward the industrial area. So be it. Within minutes, I was weaving between trucks, men hauling heavy loads on handcarts, and the rhythmic sounds of machinery. I knew I had made the right choice.

I’ve always been drawn to watching people move parts, operate equipment, and shoulder heavy burdens. I walked down narrow lanes, observing the cadence of work, trying not to intrude, offering only a smile to convey my respect and admiration for what they were doing. 

I spent several hours in that industrial pocket of the city — watching men unload stacks of fenders from trucks for recycling, garment workers bent over their sewing, and repairmen deep in concentration. It was a beehive of activity, utterly mesmerizing. 

By the end of the day, I had a collection of images that left me breathless. Reviewing my photographs later — alongside those from previous trips to India — I saw the thread I had been following without realizing it: the everyman. I am drawn to labor — not the abstract concept of work, but the physical presence of it. The cadence of movement. The choreography of muscle and machine. The quiet persistence of people engaged in tasks so ordinary they are invisible, yet so essential they hold the world together. 

Perhaps it’s in my blood. Why am I drawn to photographing people at work, immersed in their daily, often monotonous routines? Why does machinery, industry, and production speak to me so deeply? I think it’s because I feel compelled to document the everyman doing the everyday job. 

That pull is personal. I grew up watching my father, an immigrant from Greece, do just that. His skills as a cargo ship mechanic served him well when he arrived in America and found work as a plumber’s assistant. He didn’t speak a word of English, but he had a strong work ethic and labored tirelessly for many years, eventually achieving a measure of economic success. The road was not easy — it was filled with risks, disappointments, and moments of starting over. But he kept going. 

Perhaps that’s why, when I walk into an industrial quarter in Mumbai or a shipyard in another corner of the world, I recognize something familiar. The people I photograph — the welders, the recyclers, the machinists — carry the same steady resolve I saw in my father. In their focus, I see his focus. In their hands, I see his hands. 

The faces I find through my lens — bent over their work, hands steady, eyes focused — carry the same quiet dignity. And perhaps, without realizing it, I’ve been chasing my father all along.