I can't separate myself from storytelling in the most raw and authentic ways, I love capturing love in every possible way. Whether it's the person you choose to spend your life with, the brand you've poured your heart into building, or the house that built you and the people you share it with. I don't just want to take your picture, I want to tell your story so that 50 years from now, people can look at the pictures and FEEL everything. The art of noticing is as much a part of me as my very big and very soft heart.
If you asked me to pinpoint when I knew I was made to capture things, I don't think I could. I've been "noticing" things my entire life, the way sunlight hits hay just right in midsummer, the breeze that rolls through right before a storm, the way a spouse's eyes soften when their person enters a room.
While I've always loved to document stories, as a pretty introverted and anxious person, chasing a career built around people didn't exactly sound fantastic. It started small: people I knew, people I loved. They would return every year, and a few more would join the rotation. As I grew more confident, I realized part of why I grew was that I don't ask people to be something they aren't. My love isn't bold colors and loud actions; it's a soft rain on the back porch, it's memorizing my friends' coffee orders.
I told her a bold-faced lie about winning a free photo session that included hair and makeup. Eventually, she caught on; she wouldn't be a grandma if she couldn't smell a lie from a mile away. But she humored me and played along. We had the best morning, getting ready together at the house my family built in 1985. I wore clothes from her closet; she wore her hair down and giggled with the makeup artist. I captured photos of her in a beautiful greenhouse she loved, and her kids got pictures with her, too. It was the most wonderful morning. Nine days later, we lost her. It was sudden and unexpected, and it broke my heart in a way I'm not sure I'll ever heal from.