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It is June of 2024. After being on crutches for two months from an ankle sprain, I was learning how to walk again. At five foot three and a half inches tall, I am somehow a fast walker. New York instilled that in me…

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All photos from the summer of 2025 between New York and New England.

You may notice a very deliberate color contrast between the geographic locations. New York, for me is one of the most cinematic cities. What is in my opinion, one of the best cities to document the human condition in street photography. For a city that is constantly changing and evolving it is paradoxical in its nature of timelessness. Therefore to document it in black and white felt like a no brainer. Whereas the rich landscapes of Maine required color, Kodak Gold to be more precise.

I was raised by a street photographer therefore it has always been apparent to me, that those who consider themselves street documentarians are often mirroring their own realities through that of other people. The fact that everything is a self portrait is unavoidable and this particular time in my own life was thoroughly turbulent. The night before I flew out, my Father, that same street photographer, had a heart attack and was being helicoptered for emergency surgery (a topic I covered more in this past article if you care to read). So to say that I felt like an exposed nerve in a city where everyone is chronically on the defense would be a tremendous understatement.

So without further ado, here is what is past for me but will be present for you. I hope that you enjoy.

All photos taken on my beloved M6.

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I shall preface this by stating I am only stating my bookish opinions here merely because I am not near brave enough to be on Booktok. I have read the entirety of the ACOTAR (“A Court of Thrones and Roses”) series and did not like it, that opinion alone would have me ostracized and attacked on any other platform. I, much like many others, once fell victim to the influence of Booktok (I don’t have a TikTok so all of my information was therefore secondhand on reels) to which I read the likes of Colleen Hoover and Sarah J. Maas and that is where my trust in online opinion came to an abrupt halt.

There is a rather apparent divide when it comes to the internet book community. That of the intellectuals vs. those who just want to vibe. Neither are wrong. Just how they go about their defense is never in the right. Everyone is allowed to have different tastes. If you like something, that should be enough. Art in any form is subjective. Therefore is a critique not its own form of art?

I have always been an avid reader. Naturally, I have a Fable and Storygraph (I deleted Goodreads off my phone in 2024 and never looked back) and as of right now, February 2026, I began my year with Dostoyevsky and Dumas and have read eleven books. I feel rather behind on my imaginary schedule, but do you have any idea how long it takes to read the entirety of “The Count of Monte Cristo”?

Since the pandemic, well, since I started logging the books that I have read. I average at 85 books per year. What once started out as a way to see the correlation between what I read, quickly turned into a testimony for my otherwise undiagnosed ADHD. For as much as I would like to say that I keep an even keel between fiction and nonfiction alike, fiction always wins (45% nonfiction to 55% fiction). What can I say? I am just a girl who likes to disassociate.

I daresay that we currently find ourselves in this “Age of Mediocracy” when it comes to media. It takes a lot for me to get into a new show for so many things produced today feel like such a waste of time. The writers constantly question the audiences intelligence and plots are watered down or repeated to accommodate those on their phones. And the publishing industry is no different. It takes a lot for me to rate something highly, for most things are middling at best. Yet when I finish a book, whether I liked it or not, I always challenge myself to find something to take away from it. And for the most part, when it comes to educating myself through the likes of the written word, my education transcends the page and teaches me far beyond its content. So without further ado, here is what reading over 100 books in a year has taught me.

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I recall, so clearly the night of January 7th, how fiercely the winds were blowing. Us Californians are no stranger to the Santa Ana winds, but there was something tremendously ominous about the howling winds that shook the house that night. And by the next morning my suspicions were deemed correct. At 11am, I got the confirmation text, our old home was gone.

On the spectrum of human emotions, one of the absolute worst ones is feeling that of helpless and that is how I spent the day, watching the news with tears in my eyes. Watching firefighters struggle, people fleeing, people staying to try and put fires out with their garden hoses. It was a terrible sight. And the worst part is, how easily people seemed to forget and move on. Not even two weeks later, “Oh yea, I forgot that even happened!”

My Dad came back to California and we wanted to see what was left of our old community. We were by no means prepared for what we were about to see. The news downplayed the destruction, focusing more on the Palisades. By no means am I a stranger to grief and its five stages. Yet, there are somethings that feel impossible to fully accept. And the more we drove around, the more I kept reiterating the same sentiment, “I didn’t think that it would be this bad.” Quickly succeeded by, “I don’t understand.” Once more, truly incomprehensible. Walking the same path where I used to walk my dog to go get my morning coffee now looked like a war zone. Sidewalks scattered with debris and fallen beams. Homes, two weeks after the fires still smoldering, even in the rain. The National Guard around every corner. It felt more like a set than real life.

As my Dad and I returned to our old street. We stared at the remains of what was once our home, with feelings of immense guilt. The Pasadena parrots up in the tress offering their very familiar song while staring at something so entirely unfamiliar. Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it. Returning with the M6 that was once my Fathers, where I used to develop the film that ran through it in the basement. The same basement where I hosted many shoots. Now using that same camera to document what remained.

Los Angeles is much more than mansions and celebrities. Sure, people come here and perpetuate narratives of untoward stereotypes all in pursuit of making their dreams a reality. Yet watching people banding together in the wake of a living nightmare is the truest testimony of what Los Angeles is truly about. Community. Watching how people came together, donating what they could. Whether that be in the physical or financial realm was a truly beautiful sight to behold. Proving that there is always beauty somewhere in the breaking. And perhaps that was what defined my 2025 most, finding silver linings.

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I started off taking photos of my friends in high school. Just for fun. It was then that I really started to grasp something, I truly enjoyed making others feel seen. Perhaps because at the time, I did not.

Being a photographer, one of the top compliments that you can receive is, “I feel so comfortable around you. I feel as if you are documenting me for who I really am!” In this era where there is always a certain level of performance attached for the sake of validation, this is always a tremendously kind statement to hear. Especially considering, when a camera is pointed at you that is an extremely vulnerable position to be in. To be documented. To be properly exposed. Everyone loves photos of themselves but not everyone loves to be truly seen.

I started shooting models when I was in college. You could always near immediately perceive who was confident in themselves and who was not. Part of the job is to make people feel more confident about themselves. And I truly began to understand what a safe space I was for people. As a straight, relatively small woman, I was by no means threatening and clothes began to organically shed. Years later, I was asked, “How do you shoot people nude?” To which I responded. “The same way you do when they are clothed.” There is no real difference. Well, at least not for me anyway. And at one point, I began to wonder what that level of vulnerability felt like. So I set up a tripod, attached my camera and programed the self timer. At that time, I hated how vulnerable I felt. And because of that, I wouldn’t have the confidence for a few more years.

My love of self portraiture grew along with my self confidence. I cannot tell you how many rolls of 35mm film I have shot in this life, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that I took a vow to myself to take at least one mirror self portrait per roll. When I was visiting my Father in the Willamette Valley in Oregon that was when a whole other self portrait series began. I was tinkering on buying a camera off of him, and wanted to test it out. I had no model, no fancy clothes but I had nature and myself. So once more, I set up my tripod, attached the camera and set up the self timer. Stripping my clothes and insecurities I set the camera on the tripod. I cannot tell you the amount of freedom and confidence this bestowed upon me. You cannot see anything but a body. And I now tell all my friends if they are traveling, even in the hotel room, set up your phone, set the self timer and just take photos of yourself. Nudes for no one. And everyone concurs, it feels terrifying to be so exposed but so entirely liberating.

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Hello there! My name is Brenna. And I am a photographer based in Los Angeles. Right now, you can currently catch me shooting the best day of peoples lives all around Southern California. While that is the beginning of their story, here is mine.

I am an avid reader, accordi…

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