A photographer’s excuse is that we are the ones behind the camera, not in front of it. That we ask the questions, but we do not answer. That we listen, and we do not share.
The genesis of these behaviors, I’m not certain. I’m sure it was a mixture of beauty and avoidance.
Whether passerby moments or multi-hour interviews: to receive someone’s story is a clearing. It’s a space of wonder. It’s a glimpse of a self unhidden, sometimes surprising both correspondents in what we discover.
I do believe that most of the time, strangers know us better than our loved ones do.
Listening extends the gift of attention. To be present fully, to ask why, and to let time expand — is to perform something simple and unusual.
It’s a rare space where we are not misunderstood, judged, or alone. As I write this sentence, I feel the stress of a tragic truth. It’s a condemning observation, one that I want to reel back and remove from the universe.
In its place, what I mean to say:
We long to be heard, accepted, and known.
For those of you who reject this sentence — saying that you don’t want it or don’t need it or already have it; saying that it’s for others and not for you; saying that you can find peace on your own —
I know you are not alone.
And I think this sentence knows you the most.
Our resistance marks the spot where we’ve hidden what we don’t want to know. Our judgement belies our fear; our disdain mirrors our insecurity; our distance marks our desire.
So in that resistance — what’s underneath it? What will you find when you look?
What will you find when you allow yourself to be like others? To see yourself in others? To see yourself?
We are all just talking to ourselves. In writing to you, I am writing to me.
So, I also know — some of you must be storytellers. Somewhere along the way, I’ve realized the contradiction in this work. How much do we find beauty in others’ stories, and not our own?
This is the sleight of listening — to let others feel known, and to let ourselves slip through unscathed.
Somehow, photographers let each other get away with this. We have some sort of understanding. I wonder how much we’re all hiding from the same thing.
But I think, the joke’s on us. Protection enfolds harm.
Quietly and imperceptibly, we lose our story. We lose our selves. Disintegrating, hidden, untold.
