Photography as an act of love
A love letter to my longest and most fulfilling relationship
I was in eighth grade when I got my first real camera.
It was a little Canon Rebel T3, bought from a camera store a couple towns over. I had spent months fixating on the Tumblr photographers of the early 2010s, their dreamy portraits and hazy golden-hour shots convincing me that the only thing standing between me and being the Internet-famous photographer of my dreams was an expensive DSLR. When I finally had one in my hands, I photographed anything and everything I could. My bedroom mirror. My dog stretching in a sunbeam. My middle school friends in their backyards. What started as a pursuit of aesthetic greatness turned into something deeper—an instinct to document as a way of holding onto what I loved.
To me, photography is an act of love.
Though I’ve Gone Pro™ in taking photos (it’s my job and it pays my bills, it rules), I still find myself becoming more and more entranced by the art of capturing a moment every day. I practice this art by taking photos of my friends and the people in my life. I do this, to put it simply, because I love them, and because I want to capture them as they are, in the moments we’re experiencing together.
Against all odds, I love people. I love humans. I love the way they throw their heads back when they laugh, the way their faces soften in unguarded moments, the way they look when they think no one is watching. I want to remember it all. I carry my film camera around with me at all times because when I get the urge to take a photo of someone I love, I want to do it with intention. Taking out my camera slows me down in a meaningful way. It forces me to announce to the world with a click and a flash: This moment matters to me and I’d like to freeze it in time to remember it forever.
While I also always have a phone camera with me, I find myself reaching for my film camera when I want to capture a special moment. The joy of getting an email from my beloved film lab (Boutique, I love you) with a link to a folder of 36 or 72 or 108 photos is matched only by the joy I get from sending those same photos out to my friends. I’ve deemed myself the official documentarian of my friends’ lives and it’s a title I wear proudly. Seeing someone captured in a moment, the way my brain remembers taking it in, is so special to me. It might be annoying for my friends to constantly be subjected to the flash of my camera, or a “HOLD ON, DON’T MOVE, WAIT WHILE I GET MY CAMERA OUT,” but the sweetness of knowing that in a few days, or weeks, whenever I finish my roll of film, I’m going to have a sweet photo of someone exactly as they were in that moment in time outweighs the annoyance every time.
There is something undeniably human about photography. The choice of what to frame, what to preserve, what to say with an image—it all comes from a deeply personal place, at least to me. A photograph is an artifact of care. It is proof that someone was here, that someone saw you as you were, that someone wanted to keep a version of you safe from the erosion of time.
Photography doesn’t just document; it distorts. Even the most candid photo is still a choice—what to include, what to exclude, what deserves to be remembered. I don’t take pictures just to remember—I take them so my friends can see themselves as I do. The best photographs aren’t just technically good; they are infused with the feeling of being loved. You can tell when someone is photographed by someone who loves them. I want my photos to feel like that.
I saw this tweet recently, and I’ve thought about it a lot, because it’s painfully true: I feel like you can see when someone is photographed by someone who is in love with them. Romantically, platonically. I look at photos of people I’ve loved, people I’ve been in love with, people I am currently in love with, and I see it. However I came to be on this planet, I’m grateful I ended up with a camera in my hand and a lot of love in my heart.
When I look back at those photos I took in eighth grade, or throughout high school and college as I was learning to be a real photographer, I see a girl who wanted so badly to be an artist. I see someone learning to hold onto what matters to her. And I see a through-line to the person I am now, still chasing the light, still pressing the shutter button with the same hope: to capture, to remember, to love.
To celebrate Valentine’s Day (as a very single person), I’m sending out this love letter to photography, the longest relationship I’ve ever been in. I love taking photos. If you want to see the photos I’ve taken, you can follow me on Instagram, or you can look at my website.
Also, here’s a playlist of love songs that make me want to slow dance around my kitchen. I hope you feel loved today.