David Pearlman Photography

04/30/2026

Nature - perhaps the greatest artist of all time….

04/28/2026

04/22/2026

Horseshoe Bend sits just minutes from Antelope Canyon — or maybe Antelope Canyon sits just minutes from Horseshoe Bend. Either way, if you’re visiting Page, skipping either would be a mistake.

04/18/2026

With all the different types of photography I’ve explored over the years, I had somehow never truly attempted the Milky Way—until now. And what a night to start. A new moon, perfectly still conditions… it doesn’t get much better than that in Arches National Park.

Sure, it was 27 degrees at 3 a.m. when we were out there, but it was absolutely worth it.

We shot two locations. Balanced Rock offered a compelling foreground, though the view of the galaxy was somewhat limited. Panorama Point, on the other hand, delivered a stunning, unobstructed look at the Milky Way—but with a much simpler foreground.

So I’m curious—which do you prefer? Let me know in the comments.

04/17/2026

One more from Antelope Canyon—because you all deserve it.

Thanks for the kind words, comments, and support. It never goes unnoticed.

And as always, if you’d like to see one of my images on your wall, send me a message and we’ll make it happen.

04/17/2026

This one practically titled itself: Georgia O’Keeffe, eat your heart out.

04/16/2026

I could spend a lifetime photographing this place and never grow tired—every direction reveals another masterpiece.

04/15/2026

I’m glad you liked the first image I posted from Page—thank you for all the likes and thoughtful comments.

There is, however, a slightly absurd irony in trying to showcase the breathtaking image quality of a 100-megapixel medium format sensor paired with some of the sharpest lenses on the planet… by shrinking a nearly 200MB file—originally about 30×40 inches at 300 dpi—down to 13.3×20 at 72 dpi, posting it on social media, and then letting the platform compress it even further into submission.

It’s a bit like recording a symphony in a world-class studio and then playing it back over AM radio through a seatback speaker at 30,000 feet. Technically, yes—you’re hearing it. But you’re not exactly experiencing it.

That said, I hope you enjoy the images for what they are here—and know that in their natural habitat (large prints), they have the kind of detail and smoothness that can become truly spectacular, wall-sized pieces with virtually no visible grain.

Which brings me to another thought.

I remember asking my first photography professor at Columbia College, “How do you decide when to load black and white film versus color?” His answer was simple—and annoyingly wise: “Unless the scene has so much extraordinary color that you can’t bear to lose it… always reach for black and white.”

Naturally, I nodded… and then spent the next 40 years doing whatever I wanted.

Every now and then, though, I revisit a color image and convert it to black and white—one of those luxuries digital gives us that would’ve felt like science fiction back in the film days, when your creative decisions were locked in somewhere between loading the roll and committing to your mistakes.

More often than not, my instincts hold up. And once again, they did here with this vertical shot from Upper Antelope Canyon. Stripped of color, it becomes more about form, light, and texture than just “wow, pretty.”

I’m heading back today to see what a different mood offers—same canyon, new light, and those perfect blue, cloudless skies that seem almost unfair. Let’s see if I can get it right again… or at least fail in a more interesting way.

04/15/2026

There comes a moment in every photographer’s life when restraint gives way to reason… and reason quietly steps aside for a new toy. Naturally, once acquired, said toy must be exercised immediately—purely for scientific purposes, of course.

A few days ago, I welcomed the new 100-megapixel Hasselblad X2D2 into the family. Calling it “a camera” feels a bit like calling a Stradivarius “a violin.” The image quality is, without exaggeration, the best I’ve ever seen—so sharp it may require a warning label.

It seemed only appropriate to christen such a piece of engineering and artistry somewhere equally deserving, so off to Page, Arizona I went. Antelope Canyon is less a location and more an experience—like stepping into another world that just happens to be carved out of sandstone. It is utterly, almost unfairly, beautiful.

The camera did not disappoint. It rendered the canyon’s light, texture, and color with a kind of quiet authority that makes you wonder if it knows something you don’t.

I’ll be sharing a few images over the next couple of days. I look forward to your thoughts—and possibly your envy.

03/31/2026

23 years ago, I traveled to Crested Butte, Colorado for a friend’s wedding. Shortly after arriving, I stopped at a small local store to pick up a few necessities. As I walked up, I noticed two dogs in the bed of a pickup truck, locked in what at first looked like roughhousing, but quickly revealed itself as something more familiar—play with just enough edge to keep it interesting.

Every so often they’d pause—catch their breath, glance off at some distant distraction, or gently press their faces together—before diving back into the fray. There was no mistaking it: these two weren’t just playmates. They were brothers… or close enough that it didn’t matter.

I went back to my rental car, grabbed my Nikon D1x—yes, a cutting-edge 5.47 megapixels at the time—and a 20mm lens, then quietly made my way back toward the truck. By now, their play had escalated, all energy and motion. I positioned myself at the rear corner, composing the frame, hoping they’d drift into it.

As if on cue, they tumbled into the left rear corner of the truck bed—right into my line—and in that split second, everything aligned. I pressed the shutter and captured something fleeting but real.

And in the end, that’s what photography is all about—recognizing a moment before it disappears, and being ready when it does.

01/19/2026

For decades, there has been an ongoing and controversial debate about the ethical implications of shark feeding. As an advocate for sharks, and driven by a strong desire to see them survive the harsh conditions imposed by over fishing our oceans, human consumption and exploitation, I believe this practice deserves careful consideration rather than outright condemnation. Naysayers insist that shark feeding incentivizes sharks to associate the presence of human beings with food, potentially increasing the risk of negative human–shark interactions. However, this perspective often overlooks the broader context of conservation, education, and regulated ecotourism in which shark feeding frequently occurs.

It is important to keep in mind that without the incentive of food, sharks would rarely present themselves for observation, and we would know far less about how they live, migrate, and reproduce. Much of our understanding of these animals has been made possible through repeated, controlled encounters. My greatest concern with critics who argue that baiting sharks conditions them to associate humans with food is that many of these same individuals raise little objection to fishing for sharks. In essence, as long as the animal dies, the activity is deemed acceptable. This contradiction is difficult to reconcile and, ultimately, represents a mindset that is dangerous for both species—sharks and humans alike.

With all that being said, as a professional photographer who has been captivated by sharks since the age of three, it has been my life’s goal to capture images that show them in all of their behavioral complexity—feeding, breeding, or simply swimming peacefully as they exist in the wild. I was born into an era when the prevailing mentality was that “a dead shark is a good shark,” and I have witnessed how my work, along with that of countless photographers, scientists, and ecologists, has helped shift public perception to one of curiosity, appreciation, and even affection. So while I would have preferred not to include a giant tuna in this photograph, the reality is that without it, this image—and the story it tells—would not exist.