Inevitably, after each family vacation we end up with hundreds of pictures of Kristen, and (now) thousands of Samuel, but only a handful of me — if any at all. I love making pictures. It’s exciting when other people like the pictures I make, but more than anything else, photography gives me an opportunity to try and interpret the world as I see it in a moment. The moment is gone in an instant, but the picture remains. I can look back and remember the way I felt when I made it; sometimes I don’t really begin to appreciate the moment until much later, when new insights and an ever-so-slightly more mature perspective allows me to look back at that moment with a richer set of feelings.
The pictures I make help me remember where I’ve come from; they help me make sense of the places I find myself in. But I also like to have some pictures of myself — to maintain a family record, to remind myself that, yes, I am actually married to that beautiful, loving woman that shares the frame with me, and so that my son will know that I did, in fact, go on vacation with him and Kristen. Usually this means stopping a stranger and asking them to press the shutter for me. This is a very hit-and-miss procedure, that often results in many more misses than hits. Sometimes, as on the last day of our summer vacation this year, a stranger just walks up and asks to take a picture of us. I can’t say no. Hopefully, that eagerness to get behind the camera means the would-be photographer is at least comfortable looking through the viewfinder. The kind beach walker who got this one certainly was.