We arrived in New York on a Saturday, greeted by an uncharacteristically warm day. The sun was shining and people were out and about in short sleeves. I met up with a friend for lunch and she told me it was going to snow two inches by the next morning. I didn’t believe her.

I jumped out of bed at 4 a.m. the next morning and peeked out my hotel room window. White flurries floated by, and the park across the street was covered in a layer of white. As an LA native who has never spent time in snow, I was utterly mesmerized. I couldn’t believe it was real.

We had plans for the day but I decided “Nope, we’re headed straight to Central Park.”

We stepped out of the 72nd St subway station and my jaw dropped. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Towering elm trees, every bench, and every lawn was covered in a blanket of fresh snow. Dogs galloped through the snow, absolutely elated. In the distance, kids slid down a small hill in colorful plastic sleds, screaming from delight. Next to me, Simon touched and blew at every tuft of snow we passed, enthralled by the texture.

I’ve never seen the world around me so happy. Everybody just wanted to be outdoors and play. It was pure magic.

When it snows, the appearance of the world completely changes. A dark dirty winter setting gets a makeover and the world feels more intimate. A hush falls over the landscape and everything is quiet, serene, peaceful — a contrast to our normal existence.

With every shot we took I was careful about exposing my camera to moisture. But unlike rain, you could just blow the snowflakes off your camera. I’d stick it back into its case before continuing my walk. Then I’d see another perfect composition, whip it right back out, and repeat the process. I could barely feel my fingers all day but I’d never been so happy.

New York City, February 2022.