Chasing Soap Bubbles Across Deserts, Mountains, and Beaches for 16 Years

Most people assume the photographs are manipulated.

They see a giant soap bubble floating in front of a mountain range, a desert dune, or a remote coastline and immediately ask which software I used.

The answer is disappointingly simple:

None.

The bubble was really there.

And getting it there is usually the hardest part.

In 2010, I found myself standing in the Moroccan desert with a camera, a bottle of soap bubble liquid, and absolutely no idea that a small experiment would become a project lasting more than a decade.

I wasn't trying to start a series.

I wasn't thinking about galleries, collectors, or long-term artistic concepts.

I simply wanted to see what would happen if something incredibly fragile met a landscape that had existed for thousands of years.

The first bubble appeared.

A few seconds later, it disappeared.

And I was hooked.

Since then, Soapbubble Studies has taken me to deserts, beaches, forests, lakes, and mountain peaks.

Sometimes I carry liters of soap bubble liquid for hours.

Sometimes I climb mountains only to discover that the wind has other plans.

Sometimes I return home with hundreds of failed photographs and nothing worth showing.

The project has taught me that nature is an unforgiving collaborator.

It doesn't care about schedules, deadlines, or artistic ambitions.

The wind decides everything.

People often imagine landscape photography as a quiet and peaceful activity.

In reality, Soapbubble Studies is often absurd.

My husband and son have become unofficial soap bubble assistants.

Together we drag equipment, containers of bubble liquid, and cameras into places where most people would question our sanity.

We've stood on mountain ridges trying to protect a bubble from gusts of wind.

We've waited hours for the right conditions.

We've celebrated bubbles that survived for ten seconds as if we'd won the lottery.

From a distance, it probably looks ridiculous.

From the inside, it feels like a mixture of science experiment, expedition, and performance.

What fascinates me is not the bubble itself.

It is the relationship between the bubble and its surroundings.

A soap bubble is temporary by design.

It exists for seconds.

A mountain can exist for millions of years.

The bubble becomes a visual reminder that everything—even the things that appear permanent—exists somewhere on a timeline.

The bubble is simply more honest about it.

Over the years, people have interpreted the images in many different ways.

Some see environmental commentary.

Others see meditation.

Some think about climate change.

Others think about childhood.

Many viewers tell me the photographs make them feel calm.

I find that interesting because the process behind them is often anything but calm.

The final image contains none of the chaos that came before it.

No failed attempts.

No exploding bubbles.

No unexpected weather.

No frustration.

Just a brief moment that somehow survived.

The older I get, the more I realize that Soapbubble Studies is less about bubbles and more about acceptance.

You cannot control the wind.

You cannot force the perfect moment.

You cannot negotiate with weather, light, or chance.

You can only prepare, show up, and pay attention.

The rest is out of your hands.

For someone who likes plans, this has been an uncomfortable lesson.

And probably an important one.

Sixteen years after that first bubble in Morocco, I still find myself carrying soap bubble liquid into unlikely places.

People often ask when the project will be finished.

I honestly don't know.

As long as there are landscapes I haven't visited, mountains I haven't climbed, and bubbles waiting to burst, the project feels unfinished.

Every photograph is a reminder that beauty doesn't have to last forever to matter.

Sometimes a few seconds are enough.

The bubble disappears.

The landscape remains.

And somewhere in between, there is a photograph.