I stumbled across a quote today from Annie Leibovitz that said:
And I thought, same Annie, same.
It reminded me of something I haven’t thought about in years. I’ve talked about it before, but over a decade ago, I picked up a camera with the fragile hope of saving a failing marriage. My first wife was a wedding photographer, and I figured maybe, if we shared photography, we might find our way back to each other. Spoiler alert: we didn’t. But what I did find was something entirely unexpected, an obsession, and a love of photography that rewired how I saw the world.
In those early days, I was insatiable. I carried a camera with me everywhere like a secret I couldn’t stop telling. I bought roses at the grocery store just to photograph their colors. I spent twenty minutes outside a library circling a tree like it was some sacred relic of light. I photographed sunsets, boats, log piles, whatever stood still long enough to let me.
But more than anything, I wanted to photograph people. I’d scroll endlessly through Tumblr, lost in that dreamy haze of aesthetic portraits, and I wanted, desperately, to make something that beautiful too. The only problem: who was I going to photograph?
So I asked everyone. Friends, coworkers, anyone who made the mistake of standing too close while I had a camera in hand. I’m sure I drove people insane. Some said yes, a few said no, and those no’s stung more than I’d like to admit. I still remember one friend politely declining a family session I offered. I hung up the phone, flushed red, and sat there embarrassed for days.
But I kept shooting. And shooting. And shooting. Over and over. Failing often, learning always.
Fast forward to now, and I’ve worked with models, celebrities, businesses, brands, conventions, people and projects I never would have dreamed of back then. When I look back over it all, the countless photos, the mistakes, the small victories, it’s honestly overwhelming.
Because every tiny choice, every photo that seemed insignificant at the time, built into something bigger than I ever planned. A decade of moments, stitched together in light and memory.
And sometimes, just like Annie said, I look at it all, and I’m intimidated too.
