I remember my cameras — the weight of them, the click of the shutter.
A photographer keeps the world by framing it — every click a small act of love.
My first camera was heavy and a little broken, and I loved it completely. I carried it everywhere, and the world became a series of moments waiting to be kept — a face, a field, a child mid-laugh.
People think a photograph captures the thing in front of the lens. It does, but it also captures the person behind it: what I chose to frame was what I chose to love.
I developed my own film in a darkroom, the red light glowing, waiting for the image to appear like something remembered. That moment — watching a memory surface in the tray — never stopped feeling like a small miracle.
The cameras are mostly gone now, but the way of seeing is not. I still look at the world the way I did through the viewfinder: looking for the light, waiting for the moment worth keeping.