Every frame tells a story.
Let us tell yours.

At Storydeed, we don’t just document—we direct every frame with purpose. With a background creating content for HBO, Marvel, and Discovery, our cinematic photography and videography services are crafted to feel, not just look.

We specialize in events, food, lifestyle, travel, and editorial storytelling—capturing everything from the quiet intimacy of a dinner plate to the electricity of a live performance. Whether you’re launching a brand, hosting a milestone, or savoring a moment, we focus on what others miss: the essence behind the image. Please take a look at some of our work below.

Gangtey Monastery, Bhutan l Tucked away in the hills of Gangtey, I stood barefoot before a golden Buddha so radiant it felt like the walls hummed. The scent of juniper smoke lingered in the air. No selfies. No noise. Just me, the monks chanting in t

Gangtey Monastery, Bhutan l Tucked away in the hills of Gangtey, I stood barefoot before a golden Buddha so radiant it felt like the walls hummed. The scent of juniper smoke lingered in the air. No selfies. No noise. Just me, the monks chanting in the background, and a reminder that peace doesn’t need permission.

Havana, Cuba l From the balcony of the Fairmont in Havana, I watched vintage convertibles cruise beneath baroque balconies as the sun dipped low over El Capitolio.

Havana, Cuba l From the balcony of the Fairmont in Havana, I watched vintage convertibles cruise beneath baroque balconies as the sun dipped low over El Capitolio.

Iceland l I didn’t hear Iceland—I felt it. In the stillness, in the ancient stones, in the way time stretched so far you could almost touch the beginning of the world.

Iceland l I didn’t hear Iceland—I felt it. In the stillness, in the ancient stones, in the way time stretched so far you could almost touch the beginning of the world.

Bhutan l In a smoky Bhutanese kitchen tucked into the hillside, I watched Pemako grind chili by hand—red, hot, relentless. She didn’t measure, she felt. Every stir of the ema datshi was muscle memory passed down through generations.

Bhutan l In a smoky Bhutanese kitchen tucked into the hillside, I watched Pemako grind chili by hand—red, hot, relentless. She didn’t measure, she felt. Every stir of the ema datshi was muscle memory passed down through generations.

Somewhere between rushing and remembering, I found a lotus pond. I remember the dragonflies, the stillness, and how the flowers bloomed without asking for attention.

Somewhere between rushing and remembering, I found a lotus pond. I remember the dragonflies, the stillness, and how the flowers bloomed without asking for attention.

Bhutan l I followed the trail behind a hill in Bhutan and stumbled upon a cluster of white shrines beside a sacred spring. Locals whispered prayers into the wind. Some places ask nothing, yet give everything.

Bhutan l I followed the trail behind a hill in Bhutan and stumbled upon a cluster of white shrines beside a sacred spring. Locals whispered prayers into the wind. Some places ask nothing, yet give everything.

Bhutan l She stood still as sunrise. The golden Tara statue and I both faced the Great Buddha Dordenma—169 feet of seated grace. Legend says this Buddha fulfills a prophecy.

Bhutan l She stood still as sunrise. The golden Tara statue and I both faced the Great Buddha Dordenma—169 feet of seated grace. Legend says this Buddha fulfills a prophecy.

Havana, Cuba l In Havana, I dined in a mansion where the walls still breathe with stories. Downstairs, families hang laundry. Upstairs, white linens and candlelight. La Guarida isn’t just a restaurant—it’s a living memory wrapped in garlic, rum, and

Havana, Cuba l In Havana, I dined in a mansion where the walls still breathe with stories. Downstairs, families hang laundry. Upstairs, white linens and candlelight. La Guarida isn’t just a restaurant—it’s a living memory wrapped in garlic, rum, and revolution.

Barcelona, Spain l Blood orange martini in hand, I watched the Barcelona skyline melt into dusk. The drink hit sweet, sour, sharp—like the city itself.

Barcelona, Spain l Blood orange martini in hand, I watched the Barcelona skyline melt into dusk. The drink hit sweet, sour, sharp—like the city itself.

Tripoli, Libya l In a shaded pottery stall in Tripoli, my fingers brushed centuries of craft. The potter spoke no English. I spoke swaya Arabia. But when he handed me a piece—soft, sun-warmed, hand-spun—I nodded. He smiled. Some art doesn’t need tra

Tripoli, Libya l In a shaded pottery stall in Tripoli, my fingers brushed centuries of craft. The potter spoke no English. I spoke swaya Arabia. But when he handed me a piece—soft, sun-warmed, hand-spun—I nodded. He smiled. Some art doesn’t need translation.