After my first semester at grad school, I came home to my parents’ house for the [all too short] winter break. Earlier that semester my interest in photography was ignited when one of my classmates saw me walking down the hallway with a camera in my hand [note to dorks, it was a canon 10D – my first digital camera… sigh] and, assuming I was a photographer because I had a sort of fancy looking camera, asked me if I would shoot her headshots for an upcoming audition. Before I could ask her what, exactly, a headshot was I heard myself utter “Yeah, of course. That would be awesome.” So that’s where that started. October 2004.
Cut back to my parents’ house that December. It must have been because of the lack of snow that year. The rather pallid demeanor of the backyard and the pseudo-frozen pond left my desire for outdoor adventuring about as strong as my desire to go see a Hugh Grant movie. This was the house I grew up in. I painted both the inside and the outside, I built my dad a golf course in the back yard for father’s day one year, I replanted my mother’s and next door neighbor’s garden after building my father a golf course for father’s day one year, I watched my brother play Civil War in the yard and neighboring woods [by himself – he played both sides], I ran through the sprinkler, ate raw rhubarb, and built the mightiest forts you’ve ever seen. Though for some reason, on this day, my curiosity seemed to lie within the pale green walls.
We call it the computer room, but it’s more like a hallway, really. A dead end hallway that was scorching hot in the summer and if you wanted to be in there in the winter, you needed to wear your down jacket, hat and fingerless gloves [so you could still type.] There’s a long plank of wood that is built into the wall upon which rests our current disaster machine partially engulfed by the mess of electronic seaweed coming out of the back side as well as the sewing machine that my mother got as a wedding gift. You’d half expect it to have one of those black pedals that you have to work with your feet… but no, it plugs in. On the other side of the hall there are two white benches, also built into the wall, and above them the book shelves. Throughout their day, these shelves have held on a pedestal everything from my father’s yearbooks, to Gross Anatomy, to the Redwall Series, to political biographies, to my Semiotic Pattern Completion and Popular Music Theory books. Books have come in and left, been loaned to friends never to return, and made the long walk to the Salvation Army donation bin. There is one section of these book shelves, however, that has remained constant. That would be the section with the photos. It was at this at this corner of the shelves that my meandering eyes paused for a second. Not really having much on my agenda for the day I sat myself down on the incredibly uncomfortable bench and started pulling out albums.
Looking back at the experience now, I realize it must have been some mysterious force of fate or coincidence or whatever you want to believe that caused me to reach for what I was soon to realize what was my parents wedding album. Brown. Cheap gold metal binding. Gold lined oval mattes. Basically it screams 70’s. As I was leafing through it, I marveled at the resemblance of my dad at that age and my brother now. I marveled at how much my mom looked like her siblings. But that is pretty much where it stopped. And that is where my heart was broken.
I know how my parents are now. I know how they look at each other, I know how they touch, I know how they get so ridiculously excited when a new bird comes to one of the feeders. I know how my mom rolls her eyes when my dad tells us all for the 80th time that he had the Baldwins’ father for social studies in high school [I still haven’t figured out why he thinks that is so great…] I know how my dad will always say yes whenever my mom asks him to do anything – be it running to the plant store to pick up something for her garden or making sure to record that night’s episode of Boston Legal so they can watch it together [though, inevitably, she will be asleep within the first three minutes.] I know what their love is like now. It is honest and pure and seasoned and goes so much deeper than anything I could every dream of having for myself. It is beautiful. As I looked through their wedding photos my eyes began to water and some mix of longing and anger arose in me and I was screaming inside… what I wouldn’t give for just one glimpse into their life back then. Just ONE picture of how my mom looked at my dad at that time in their lives, or how he held her, or the way she laughed for only him. Their love has grown and remained current through all these years – the most remarkable feat of all… they are in love with the person that sleeps beside them, not the person that they met all those years ago. They are not in love with the idea of who each other is but who each other actually is. The problem, though, is that I missed who they were. I wasn’t around. The only thing that I can look back at is a picture of what they looked like. I want to know who they were, now that I know what they have become and I cannot, and that breaks my heart.
Fast forward a few years and I have finished grad school decided not to do what I went to grad school for [well not directly, anyway] and am trying to figure out what to do with my life when my brother’s roommate from college, Chris, asks me if I could shoot his wedding. He can’t afford a “real” photographer and knows that I have a camera that looks kind of fancy. [you can see a slideshow from that wedding HERE if you want] So I said that I would be honored and as I was preparing for the day I thought back to my parents, and vowed to never let what happen to me and my brother and sister happen to Chris and Shannon’s children. So I shot it. And I was hooked. I have since become so obsessed with love and the nature of love and the way it manifests itself on, around, and about different people, that it’s all I really think about. I find myself standing in the middle of busy sidewalks wearing a HUGE grin amazed at all the love that surrounds me. This world is a pretty beautiful place when you take the time to really live.
I am a storyteller and a healer. Undergrad was all about telling a musical narrative and healing through sound. Grad school was all about Theatre and film and healing through performance. I worked for a year and a half as an EMT. I spent a year working and training with a Shaman and a Cherokee medicine man. I was in the AmeriCorps for a year working with the disadvantaged youth of Maine. Now, I am given the utmost in responsibility… to tell the story of family legacy and of love. The best part of it all is that I work in non-fiction. When you think about it, storytelling is really one of the major components in the preservation of culture. Whether it be through performance, or music, or stories around a campfire, or legends in the tall grass, or family history lessons from your mother while working in the rice fields… it is part of who we are. It is the most important part of who we are. We are those that have come before and explored to the ends of the world. We are those that have been enslaved and against all odds have endured. We are those who have stood up alone for what they truly believed to be right and have been chastised for it. We are our past and our ancestors. We are the riches we gain from living and loving in the moment and knowing that it is beautiful.
I founded my business and live my life guided by two basic principles that I believe to be inherent truths about humanity.
The first :: everyone is beautiful. I believe this with all my heart and will spend my life [in whatever capacity I can] showing people their true reflection. Yes, you are beautiful. I will tell you now and hopefully a million times before we part ways.
The second :: we all benefit from the stories of others, because we are truly all connected. Think about how much we learn and grow from paying attention to what is all around us. The answer to every question we could ever have is already out there. All we have to do is seek it.
This is not my job. This is my life and my love.
You are beautiful. Thank you for your constant source of inspiration and love and awe and beauty and breath and joy and fortitude and truth. Never be afraid to show the world how truly beautiful you are. It is the greatest gift you could ever give.
Be Joyful. Seek the joy of being alive.
:e:
