I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what actually happens when we take a photograph.
On the surface, it’s pretty simple. We see something, we raise the camera, we press the shutter, and we have a photograph.
But that’s really only the beginning.
I’ve always thought of photographers as storytellers, even if we don’t necessarily think of ourselves that way. Whether you’re a photojournalist documenting an event or someone walking around the neighborhood looking for interesting light, you’re making choices about what to show and what to leave outside the frame. And the moment you do that, you’re telling some kind of story.
We’re creatures of story. Long before cameras existed, we were painting on cave walls, gathering around fires, and passing stories from one generation to the next. We use stories to remember things, to understand the world, and to connect with other people. Photography is just another way of doing that.
I think there are a few different stories that can exist around a photograph.
The first is the story behind the photograph.
Who are these people? What happened before the shutter was pressed? What happened afterward? Why were they there? Sometimes knowing the circumstances completely changes the way we see an image. That’s part of why I enjoy photobooks that include essays and exhibitions that give you some context about the work. The photograph gives you the moment, but the story gives you everything that’s happening around it.
Then there’s the story of getting the photograph.
Photographers love talking about this. The camera we used, the lens, the film, the location, how long we waited, how far we walked. Sometimes there’s a real adventure behind an image. Other times, we probably romanticize the process a little. But there’s something compelling about knowing that someone went looking for that photograph. The struggle and the waiting become part of the story.
But eventually, I think we get to the most interesting part: the photographer.
Anyone can buy the same camera. We can use the same lens, the same film, and learn the same techniques. But nobody else has lived your life. The places you’ve been, the people you’ve met, the things you’ve experienced, loved, lost, or simply noticed along the way—all of that affects how you see.
Two photographers can stand in the same place, looking at the same thing, under the same light, and come away with completely different photographs. Not necessarily because one is better than the other. They’re just different people.
And that’s where the audience comes into the picture.
When someone looks at our photograph, they’re bringing their own experiences with them. Maybe they recognize the place. Maybe it reminds them of someone. Maybe they see something in the photograph that we never intended. At some point, the photograph stops being entirely ours and becomes part of someone else’s story.
I like thinking of the photograph as a kind of bridge. On one side is the photographer and their experience. On the other is the person looking at the image. The photograph connects the two, but the viewer gets to bring something of themselves across that bridge.
That’s also why I don’t think photography is ultimately about having the newest camera or getting the technically perfect image. Those things can certainly matter, but they’re not what makes a photograph stay with you.
Photography changes. Cameras change. Styles change. What’s popular today will eventually be replaced by something else. But every once in a while, you come across an old photograph that still makes you stop and look. You might not know who took it or exactly what was happening when it was made, but somehow it still connects with you.
Maybe that’s what I’m really trying to do with my own photography.
Not necessarily make the perfect photograph. Just make something that makes another person stop for a moment. Something that makes them wonder, remember, or feel something.
The moment itself is gone. The people have moved on. The light has changed. Eventually, I’ll put the camera away and go home.
But the photograph remains.
And then someone else sees it.
Maybe that’s what happens after the shutter.
