I grew up in the city and got around on the subway and bus most of my life. Where I lived, I usually had a long trip with at least a transfer or two.

After I got into photography, I brought my backpack with me almost everywhere. It didn't matter how far or how crowded the bus or train was. I had at least my camera and a few lenses and speedlights, but usually my tripod too. I'd even bungee a lightstand and umbrella to the tripod sometimes. It weighed about 40lbs for digital and up to 60 for medium format. I'm not going to talk about my 4x5 monorail. No field cameras for me.

It was like that going to work, going to meet a friend or just going for a walk. I made some great friends during that time. I'd have worried a bit more about my sanity, as I suspect you might, if they hadn't all had habits similar to mine. We all had the same thing in common, we loved taking photos and we were all dedicated to advancing our craft. I miss those days very much.

Life Gets in the Way

As my career became more demanding, an energy I'd had, I guess it was the energy to be spontaneous, be curious, started going to "more important" things. When I did bring my camera with me it was to shoot an event or some kind of gig. That was the kind of thing I'd always thought I wanted to do, but the tension between work and trying to take photography seriously eventually turned both into the same thing. A chore.

I'll never know whether I could have made it as a photographer. I never took that shot. I don't regret it in hindsight. I have work, something I also enjoy, and I have photography, an outlet that brings joy on its own merits, unencumbered by the constraints of the rat race.

What I do regret is how seldom I do take photos these days. Or develop film when I do shoot it. Every developing session now is a mix of a year or two's worth of negatives. I don't think I've made a print in 5 years. Factors like work, family and personal tragedy have all made the spark to pick up and go find something new exceedingly rare.

Time Marches On

Last month marked 10 years since I left the city. I'd spent all my life there but never felt like I was a part of it. I was drawn to the quiet sparsity of the woods and mountains, so I went to find peace in new surroundings. I've worked from home all this time, which gave me the freedom to live where I wanted but blurred the line between working and not working in ways I didn't anticipate.

I started a family not long after leaving, and that was the proverbial death knell in the cadence I'd been used to for so long. I still shoot, but orders of magnitude less frequently, and most, no, all, of what I do shoot is either family related or photos of the places we visit.

I don't think the problem was any single thing. It was the accumulation. Each small concession — skipping a walk because I was tired, leaving the bag at home because it wasn't worth the hassle, telling myself I'd develop that roll next weekend, felt minor in the moment. You don't notice a practice dying while it's happening. You notice it after, when you realize you can't remember the last time you went out with no purpose other than to look at things.

Finding the Way Back

I'm not writing this because I've figured it out. I haven't. But I've started paying attention to what I lost, which feels like a necessary first step. Building this site is part of that, going back through twenty years of work and deciding what holds up forced me to look at it honestly, both the work itself and what it meant to me when I was making it.

What I keep coming back to is that photography was never really about the photos. It was about the state of mind that produced them. A way of moving through the world where you're actively looking, noticing light and geometry and the weight of a moment before it passes. That doesn't require a camera. But the camera was what kept me accountable to it.

I think a lot of people who've had a serious creative practice know exactly what I'm talking about. Something you built your life around for years quietly becomes something you used to do. Not because you stopped caring about it, but because everything else just gradually took up more space. If that's you, I'd be curious to hear how you've dealt with it, whether you found your way back, made peace with the distance, or something else entirely. I don't think there's a right answer. I just know I'm not done looking for mine.

What do you see when you take a closer look?

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