There's a photograph I didn't take of my brother, and it's the one I remember most clearly. I didn't lift my camera. I just watched as he laughed, threw his head back ever so slightly, light shining in his eyes.
Before his death, I wanted the perfectly posed photos. The ones I thought other people wanted to see. The perfect lighting, the right outfits. And sure, those make nice photos. But after his death, and the death of my beloved grandmother a year later, I began searching for the photos that lit up my memories. The face he made when he would air drum to a Metallica song. The way my grandmother's hands looked resting on the back on the kitchen chair.
I wanted to start capturing those moments. This was not an instant revelation though. Admittedly, I shut down after losing Tony. I put my camera down. In that first year, I picked it up only once, to photograph my dear cousin's wedding. After that, it sat for months at a time, literally collecting dust. And when I did shoot, I felt next to nothing. A stark contrast to the sheer joy photography used to bring me. Losing my grandmother compounded my grief and photography became something I wanted to return to but didn't know how.
I had always admired lifestyle photographers and I began to feel this pull to lean into that style of photography. But I guess, as doubt often does, it told me I wasn't good enough to shoot like that. To literally tell a story with my photography. So again, my camera sat. But this spring, something woke in me. Maybe it was hope, maybe it was healing.
I want to capture those photos that will bring the best memories rushing back. Not just a time in a life, an actual piece of life. The ordinary is the sacred thing. It always was. I just couldn't see it until I had to.