I have been going back through old images, some as far back as 15 years, and sharing the stories behind them as well as what I learned from them. Although they are portraits, I thought these posts a better fit for philosophy than the technique-heavy genre subcategories. You can feel free to tell me otherwise.
*****
He was about the same age as my boys. My crazy boys, who I photographed jumping on beds, wrestling, doing what boys do. I knew how to photograph little boys.
But this boy had severe hemophilia. There would be no risks taken for any reason, least of all for a photo shoot. Any small injury could have had a tragic outcome. And he, at this particular time in his life, wasn't feeling well. It wasn't an easy life. One moment he would be smiling and mugging for the camera, and the next dissolve into tears of frustration. He was so sweet despite all he was living with. He made me appreciate how lucky my boys were, but also respect the strength of his entire family, including his little sister who was a carrier of the disease.
And he stretched me to find other ways of interacting, a gentler approach that could be happy and joyful while also being still and controlled. To use my voice and body language, and to know when to allow him space to breathe. To be empathetic without pitying him. To record moments without intruding.
A few days ago, a photographer I work with frequently asked how I remember these stories from so long ago? Do I journal or take notes? It was a good question. The answer is, really, that the sessions I did after I learned to slow down, to invest, to make a deep connection and to be present in every frame, wrote themselves somewhere in my mind. You don't forget those who are deeply important to you; therefore I had to learn that those who open themselves up to me and my lens are ALL deeply important, if I am doing it right.
*****
He was about the same age as my boys. My crazy boys, who I photographed jumping on beds, wrestling, doing what boys do. I knew how to photograph little boys.
But this boy had severe hemophilia. There would be no risks taken for any reason, least of all for a photo shoot. Any small injury could have had a tragic outcome. And he, at this particular time in his life, wasn't feeling well. It wasn't an easy life. One moment he would be smiling and mugging for the camera, and the next dissolve into tears of frustration. He was so sweet despite all he was living with. He made me appreciate how lucky my boys were, but also respect the strength of his entire family, including his little sister who was a carrier of the disease.
And he stretched me to find other ways of interacting, a gentler approach that could be happy and joyful while also being still and controlled. To use my voice and body language, and to know when to allow him space to breathe. To be empathetic without pitying him. To record moments without intruding.
A few days ago, a photographer I work with frequently asked how I remember these stories from so long ago? Do I journal or take notes? It was a good question. The answer is, really, that the sessions I did after I learned to slow down, to invest, to make a deep connection and to be present in every frame, wrote themselves somewhere in my mind. You don't forget those who are deeply important to you; therefore I had to learn that those who open themselves up to me and my lens are ALL deeply important, if I am doing it right.