How many shots does it take for a photographer to be satisfied? How many poses, twists, and turns before they declare they’ve captured the perfect moment, where your eyes hold just the right amount of mischief and laughter?
How long before you learn to smile without that deep breath? Is there even such a thing as a natural smile?
What defines an authentic laugh? Is it the belly laugh? What about men who laugh at women with a smug, misogynistic tone? Or women who laugh at each other, masking their own insecurity with a smile?
I want a photographer who captures every version of me, from every moment I rise—sometimes confident, radiant, and full of conviction at 3am, 4am, and beyond.
I want them to capture me when I wake up unsure, the uncertainty lingering for an hour. What do I look like in those moments? I want a photographer to show me that my smile, whether joyful or downcast, is not just the curve of my lips but the beating of my heart.
I want a photographer to reveal the truth of what they see behind the lens—that most people despise surprise parties, and brides secretly detest the layers of makeup on their wedding day.
I want them to admit that the person always putting themselves in the center of the photo is often deeply insecure, and that the reason they linger at parties is because they dread going home.
I want them to confess that in school photos, teachers sometimes choose their place carefully, avoiding standing next to students with troubling behavior, while the school counselor is at their wit’s end and parents opt to pray, leaving their children in the care of others.
I want a photographer to capture the truth—that the real moment worth capturing comes right after the photo, in the sigh of relief and the rush to move on with the day. That’s when the true story is told.