A physical copy of a memory held in my head. A reminder. Proof that I’m not gaslighting myself.
I started taking photos when I was young, fascinated by the family albums that documented every trip and milestone. My first real experience behind the lens was at a relative’s wedding, running around with a disposable camera. By fifteen, I had my first true camera: an Olympus Accura Zoom 105 35mm film camera. I actually found that exact model in a thrift store last year - a relic of the past that now sits in view as a reminder.
I’ve always known exactly why I wanted to take photographs. My childhood was far outside the norm. From a very young age, I dealt with traumatic experiences by finding ways to survive them. When I would take photos, they were the exact moments I knew would remind me that it’s not all bad.
I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. My great-grandparents literally lived the story of The Notebook, which put an even heavier emphasis on capturing moments for me. As a kid, it felt like pure magic. Anyone who shoots on film knows the agonizing, beautiful wait of getting a roll developed. When I finally picked up those prints, I would smile, cringe, laugh, and judge - but I cherished every single one.
Today, my work is mostly digital, but the purpose remains unchanged. When the depression, anxiety, and stress of past trauma creep in, those photos mean the world to me. They are a reminder. Proof that these moments actually happened. They are evidence that the world can be a magical, happy place to be.
