Martinique, Through My Lens
I’d never been to Martinique before, but in some strange way, it already felt like home. Maybe it’s because I grew up hearing little stories—about the island where my grandfather was born, about the warmth, the food, the rhythm of life that felt slower yet fuller. I was born in Canada, raised thousands of kilometres away, but this trip wasn’t just about visiting a beautiful place. It was about finally stepping into a part of myself I’d only imagined.
Ever since I picked up photography more seriously a few years ago, I knew this trip was coming. One day, I’d go back there—to try to capture what had been part of my family’s story long before I ever showed up. So when I landed, camera in hand, everything felt like it was unfolding just the way it should.
The beaches at Les Anses-d’Arlet were the kind that make you feel like time doesn’t really exist: calm turquoise waters, sleepy fishing boats, and houses painted in soft, sun-faded pastels. I spent hours walking, swimming, and shooting. There was a rhythm to the light there—soft in the morning, golden and almost surreal by late afternoon. I tried to freeze all of it in frames. Not just the beauty, but the feeling.
In Sainte-Anne, I was struck by the colour—not just in the walls or the clothes or the fruit stands, but in the energy. It felt joyful, confident, and a bit chaotic in the best way. I’d sit with a cold drink in hand, camera resting on the table, and just watch the way people moved through the day. I think part of me wanted to memorize it.
Then Saint-Pierre—rocky, rugged, and quieter. The remnants of what once was were still visible. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about a place that’s rebuilt itself after being reduced to ash. I didn’t expect to feel so connected there, but maybe that’s the thing about returning to places that have shaped your roots. Even if you’ve never stood on that soil before, part of you recognizes it. And everywhere else in between? Green. Lush. Alive. The mountainous jungles seemed to breathe. I’d drive through narrow, winding roads, pulling over whenever I saw a view that demanded to be remembered. And there were many. Sometimes I’d just sit and listen—to birds, to the breeze, to the quiet hum of an island that holds so much history, so much soul.
This trip wasn’t about ticking off must-see spots. It was about presence. About returning to something—or someone—I’d never met, but had always known was there. I left with rolls of film, hundreds of digital shots, and the kind of full heart that only happens when you finally go somewhere you were always meant to find.
And I know I’ll be back.
