Pasquale J. Cuomo has been making photographs for over fifty years, but he still works like someone just discovering the medium for the first time. He picked up his first camera as a teen and never looked back. What started as a teenage interest has turned into a lifelong habit of observation. Through all the changes in photography—film, digital, smartphones, AI—Cuomo has kept moving, kept shooting, and most recently, circled back to where it all started: film.
Over the course of his career, Cuomo didn’t stick to one genre. He’s done it all—weddings, fashion, commercial shoots, architectural work, legal and PR documentation. By the mid-1980s, he had built a full studio setup, complete with his own lab and top-level gear. His clients trusted him because he didn’t just deliver pictures—he saw things others didn’t. He worked with a certain quiet seriousness, focusing more on the subject than the spotlight.
These days, Cuomo’s work is slowing down—on purpose. He’s been revisiting familiar landscapes and picking up his Hasselblad 500C/M again. Film, especially Ektar, gives him the process he enjoys: methodical, limited, intentional. His recent trips have brought him back to places he hadn’t photographed in decades.
In October 2024, Cuomo returned to the Great Smoky Mountains, a spot he hadn’t seen through the lens since 1991. Now 70, he hiked up to Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in the park, loaded down with gear. The weather wasn’t great, but he managed to capture a few frames before the light shifted. It wasn’t just a picture he was after—it was the act of getting there, setting up, and doing it the hard way. For him, that hike, that roll of film, and that fading light were all part of the same picture.
Later that month, he traveled through the Shenandoah Mountains outside Roanoke, Virginia. This region means something to him—it has a quiet pull. He talks about going back soon to spend more time photographing the area. Early mornings in those hills offer long, open views and valleys filled with fog. Cuomo caught one such scene using a wide 50mm Zeiss lens, and like most of his recent work, the result is simple and calm. Nothing dramatic. Just stillness and space, shot with care.
Then there’s his growing archive of aircraft photography. It’s a subject he’s been building on quietly for years. On Memorial Day weekend, he photographed a B-29 bomber in Farmingdale, New York—one of only two still flying. He’s drawn to aircraft not just because of their shape, but because of what they represent. Cuomo used to work in machine tools and spent time in aviation manufacturing plants. That experience stuck with him. He sees planes as machines, yes, but also as artifacts—pieces of a bigger story. Shooting a massive plane like a B-29 with film is tough. There are access limits and framing challenges. But Cuomo isn’t interested in capturing the entire plane in one shot. He looks for character, form, and mood. His photos don’t just document—they reflect.
There’s a common thread running through everything Cuomo does: intention. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t overshoot. Film keeps him disciplined. Every frame matters. There’s no undo button, no shooting thousands of images to sort out later. When Cuomo photographs something, he’s already thought through the why and the how.
His images don’t demand attention. They offer it. There’s space in them—space to breathe, to wonder, to settle in. A misty mountain ridge, a plane’s curved fuselage—these aren’t just subjects. They’re entry points into a larger way of seeing.
At a time when speed rules and photography is often about quantity over quality, Cuomo is doing something else entirely. He hauls his gear up the hill, waits for the right moment, and presses the shutter. Not for likes. Not for clicks. Just for the photograph. And that’s still more than enough for him.
