Before a single photo is taken, there’s that first conversation of an idea—the story you want to tell. So you begin by asking yourself: What is the story I’m trying to share? Where does it unfold? What does it need? Who is it for?
And once those questions start answering themselves, the gathering begins. Objects, props, scraps of inspiration, a certain quality of light you notice outside, a patch of earth or stone or shade that suddenly feels like a stage. You collect it all and go. Then comes the arranging—and the rearranging. Building, unbuilding, stacking, unstacking, moving things an inch this way or that. It’s a dance of details under the open sky until each one quietly holds its own, until the whole scene hums with the mood you were hoping for. Only then do you finally start clicking the camera.
That’s exactly what a group of friends and I did a few years ago. I had gathered the objects, we shared a vision, and there was a magazine waiting for the results. We poured ourselves into the process—into the laughter, the tinkering, the light chasing. And after all that, the article was rejected. Just like that.
But time has a way of reshaping disappointments and revealing lessons. So here I am, years later, sharing these-I wasn’t the photographer, these are my souvenir photographs. Tomorrow I’ll show some more.
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