the girl behind the lens

It all started when I was a confused, awkward kid in High School...

Nan Goldin, Misty and Jimmy Paulette in a taxi, NYC, 1991

One day I was spending lunch alone in the art studio with a book on photography and came across a photo taken by Nan Goldin featuring two drag queens sitting in the back of a cab. There was something so accessible about this photo and in that moment, I understood the concept of 'the decisive moment.' The disparity in the expressions on their faces, the way the straps of a gold bra worn as a top over a white fishnet top with rips in it, the identity and pain that accompanied it was all right there in a single capture. Through this photograph, I felt a little less alone.

I went home and asked my dad if we had a "real" camera I could use.

I was grappling with understanding my sexuality at the time and wasn't sure where I fit into the world. Seeing this photo allowed me to understand that I could turn the lens on myself and the things I was struggling with. Photography provided me two critical paths to understanding myself. The first was artistic and exploratory, I found a safe space to define my sexuality and challenge the heteronormative messaging around me; I grew up in Tennessee, so there was (and continues to be) an excess of close-minded thinkers.

The second was more meditative; the process of developing film and making enlargements in the darkroom is very rhythmic and precise. Being alone in a dark or dimly lit room perfecting an image that matched my vision was very personal and rewarding. There was nowhere else in my life that I could be alone with my thoughts so comfortably. 

One day I was spending lunch alone in the art studio with a book on photography and came across a photo taken by Nan Goldin featuring two drag queens sitting in the back of a cab. There was something so accessible about this photo and in that moment, I understood the concept of 'the decisive moment.' The disparity in their expressions on their faces, the way the straps of a gold bra worn as a top over a white fishnet top with rips in it, the identity and pain that accompanied it was all right there in a single capture. Through this photograph, I felt a little less alone.

I went home and asked my dad if we had a "real" camera I could use.

I was grappling with understanding my sexuality at the time and wasn't sure where I fit into the world. Seeing this photo allowed me to understand that I could turn the lens on myself and the things I was struggling with. Photography provided me two critical paths to understanding myself. The first was artistic and exploratory, I found a safe space to define my sexuality and challenge the heteronormative messaging around me.

The second was more meditative; the process of developing film and making enlargements in the darkroom is very rhythmic and precise. Being alone in a dark or dimly lit room perfecting an image that fits your vision is very personal and rewarding. There was nowhere else in my life that I could be alone with my thoughts so comfortably. 

I love the artistry of film photography so damn much I went to school for it during the digital rise. I was going to be a fine art photographer! In hindsight, it's unsurprising that dream never came to be, but I'm so happy that I found a way to keep a camera in my hands and to provide people with tangible memories from one the happiest days of their lives. 

I love the artistry of film photography so damn much I went to school for it during the digital rise. I was going to be a fine art photographer! In hindsight, it's unsurprising that dream never came to be, and I am so happy to be where I am now— camera in hand, preserving joy for kindred spirits who want to remember how their wedding day felt, not just how it looked.