his little girl

June 15, 2014  •  Leave a Comment

I was raised as many things. 

Girl. 
Farm girl.
City girl.
Lover of  things living and lonely.

The photographer's daughter.

I was always quietly fascinated by my father`s photography. On the morning of a shoot (generally weddings), I could feel the tension. I knew to stay out of the way, but I was drawn to observe, and I still hold snapshots in my mind:
The batteries in the charger in the hall.
Rolls of film in the freezer. 
The breeze of Old Spice as he ran by with a backdrop or a light.
My mom (his creative eyes and assistant) in hot rollers and velvet housecoat.
The open silver suitcase with it's exquisite assortment of Hasselblad components.

At times, I accompanied. I eyed the bride and watched my dad work tirelessly; sliding filters behind the lends, adjusting the dress, pausing as my mother readjusted the bouqet. Eventually, I shot simple candids alongside. Just for fun. I was often told I had `the eye` but my focus was on science. I had a far-off dream of being a writer but considering photography was silly. It seemed so saturated already, and I didn't have the audacity to call myself 'an artist'.

Now, twenty-five years later, I`m realizing I've always been far more artist than scientist. 

My not-so-secret dream is still writing. And I love the reality of it.
And photography is even more saturated. But that can not stop me from Seeing. 

I am an artist. 
I have been given eyes and hands to embrace and record beauty. 
I am my father`s daughter. 
And I'm finally growing up. 
 


Comments

No comments posted.
Loading...

Archive
January February March April May June (1) July August September (2) October (4) November (4) December
January (1) February (1) March (1) April (1) May (1) June (1) July (1) August (1) September October November December
January February March April May June July August September (2) October November (2) December
January February March April May June July August September October November December