I walked with some haste this evening. After spending the morning photographing Slavic Village, a small working-class town on the outskirts of Cleveland, Ohio, and then heading into the office for the middle part of the day, I was too tired to focus on anything but the mission at hand:

Deliver a handful of prints to some folks I had photographed on my last trip to Cleveland two months earlier — images of an entire neighborhood of kids playing in uncapped fire hydrants.

The neighborhood of Central is roughly a two-mile walk from my hotel in Downtown Cleveland, so I did not have a ton of time to waste to get down there and back before sunset. Focused, I hustled onward while my camera remained off in my bag. But then I heard the unmistakable laughter of kids to my right, and as I turned to look in that direction, I saw a slight body arching in the air about 50 yards away — a kid no more than 8 years old doing a backflip off of a trash can in an open field, three others cheering him on.

I looked around and saw nobody else — just four kids, no parents or adults. Always a precarious proposition as a man in his mid-thirties walking the street with his camera. Yet, I decided to postpone my rush to Central and approach the kids.

Briefly introducing myself and complimenting their acrobatics, I quickly got to the most important question: are your parents around?

“Yeah! Over there!” They pointed toward a building on the other side of the nearest street. “We live there, and our parents are outside.”

“Okay, awesome, let’s go talk to them,” I said, and we walked as a group over to the building. It was the Salvation Army, a shelter on the edge of Downtown Cleveland. Approaching the parents, I explained who I was and what my intentions would be if they allowed it — the kids were doing backflips, and I’d love to take a few photos of them having all that fun. I would just be five minutes and then I’d be on my way. But I wanted to make sure I checked with their parents first.

They were both appreciative of my approach — “That is really good of you to ask the parents,” their mother said — and agreed without any reservation. So, back to the field I went with the kids.

What was supposed to be just five minutes turned into at least forty-five. The moment we got back to the trash can, two of the kids immediately began doing acrobatics. Meanwhile, two of the others were more interested in my cameras, one slung across each shoulder — a film Leica M, and a digital one. And before I knew it, each child had a camera, leaving me with none.

Though I had plenty of chances throughout to make photographs myself, a large portion of my time was spent as a director, if you will, of the entire scene, negotiating the orders they barked at each other for photographs.

I want to take a picture!
Come this way, group photo!
Lay down on the ground so I can jump over you!
I want to do a backflip, take a picture of me doing it!

All the while, trying to ensure the camera settings allowed the kids the chance to make a legible image or two. A fully manual camera (including focus) isn’t exactly the best way to make your first photographs.

If I had to guess, the kids had likely never held or used a camera in this sense before, and yet they were having an absolute blast. And honestly — so was I.

In total, we made 130 digital images as a group, and breezed through an entire roll of Tri-X.

Participation vs. Observation

There are certainly times when observation is key to the documentary process. The photographer is in the environment, but tries to interfere as little as they can, allowing the situation to evolve as much as possible on its own terms.

However, there are also times when simply being there isn’t enough. And this moment with the kids was one of those times. To interrupt their play time and intrude with my camera with the sole purpose of making an image — well, that would not have sat right with me, personally, nor would it have benefitted anyone but myself.

The moment offered an opportunity for my participation, and not only did that afford the children more fun, it also granted them agency and authorship. Letting them decide how they wanted to be photographed and even handing over both cameras at once felt like relinquishing full authorial control on my part.

But did I? Ultimately, I will still be the one who decides in post which photographs matter, which ones make the cut, how they get edited and sequenced, and when, where, and how they are shared.

Yet, the kids chose their performances for the camera. They directed each other (and oftentimes me), and they even chose when to press the shutter.

I handed them the cameras, but set the exposure and focus. They pointed the camera and photographed the moment, but I edited it in post.

So who authored the photograph?

In all reality, authorship was never truly relinquished, it was distributed. It didn’t belong to any single person. It was shared.

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Transformative Moments

Where adults are self-conscious, kids often throw their inhibitions to the wind (if they have any to begin with). Where you or I might feel uncomfortable performing for the camera, these kids were not only willing, but excited to leap, tumble, and flip (and often fall) for the camera. And where many adults would have reservations about holding a fancy camera that is not theirs, or trying to use technology they have never encountered, these kids were more than happy to take control and experiment.

As a result, the moment became transformative; we made something together — and in large part it was driven by the subjects, not the photographer. It was a reciprocal process that could actually be felt in the moment.

And there is something deeper that can come from making photographs in a place of genuine connection. Whether it is in the brief moment on the street when we are able to truly connect with a stranger, or in a moment when we are photographing a long-running story and have built such strong relationships that the camera seemingly becomes invisible to the subject. Whatever it is, this connection can be felt in the images.

Of course, not every moment or story requires (or asks for) this approach. Even similar circumstances can necessitate different styles of participaton. For example, when I photographed kids of a similar age group playing in uncapped fire hydrants, I did not hand over the cameras, nor did I get their take on how they wanted to be photographed.

The situation evolved at such a frenetic pace that I could hardly stop photographing. And the kids were so wrapped up in their own fun that stopping to ask them questions would have been an intrusion rather than collaboration. Yet, what did remain the same was me surveying the scene first, talking to as many parents as possible, and, of course, obliging any requests I did get for specific photographs to be taken.

On July 4th of this year, I happened upon another similar situation, but once again it necessitated a slightly different approach. On that day, I attended a small parade in a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona. Kids from all over the town of Verrado lined the streets with their bikes, parents with their lawn chairs and coolers, and all of them in varying degrees of stars and stripes.

Unexpectedly to me, a fire truck from the Verrado Fire Department arrived and backed up into place next to a large gathering that had been growing on the block. And before I knew it, they began spraying the crowd with a deluge of water from a fire hose atop the truck. I photographed as much as I possibly could in those moments — kids dancing with excitement, parents holding their kids, adult couples embracing, people in patriotic costumes getting absolutely soaked.

There was no time to ask anyone how they wanted to be photographed, yet we were very much in that moment together. As I got drenched, I laughed and hooted and hollered every bit as much as the kids and adults on site. Participating came in the form of living the moment together, and in the nods, smiles, and slight gestures that communicated my positive intentions with the camera to whomever I locked eyes with under the fire hose’s rain.

Of all of the images made in these moments, there are a handful that I love — some because of the value they bring to my body of work as documentary photographs, others because of the moments behind the photographs themselves.

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In the case of our young acrobats, these were moments when kids were handed tools or toys or whatever they made of them, with no guardrails or prescribed outcomes — just four kids deciding what they wanted to make and how.

As for the uncapped fire hydrant, it was a moment when a neighborhood welcomed in a total stranger as they turned their block into a waterpark.

And on the Fourth of July, I was just one of many adults there who — albeit by accident — got to feel what it was like to be a kid again.

All of these circumstances were different, yet they all possessed one thing in common: the photographer participated.

Participation just meant something different in each setting: one meant intervening, another meant not intervening. And yet another meant experiencing.

The photographer is probably never entirely an observer. The real question is how much of ourselves the situation asks us to bring into it.

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I have been a little quiet on Substack the past few weeks.

In part, this is because of the time of year — the later stages of the Major League Baseball season and the deep throes of summer here in the desert combine for a very time-restricted period of the year for me.

However, another reason for the slower drip of writing is a shift in focus on consumption rather than production. Over the last few weeks, when given the time to produce content for social media, I have elected instead to read and study. These ebbs and flows are natural, and likely necessary to stave off burnout.

Though this period has involved more concentrated reading and studying, both have always been a significant component of my photographic process. In the early days, I used reading and studying photobooks as a way to not only better understand an unfamiliar world to me — the art world — but also to offset the fact that I had very little time to actually go out and make photographs. It was my way of “getting the reps without the reps.”

However, this process of self-study has evolved over the years into something much more integral and valuable to my work with the camera. Reading, studying, synthesizing, reflecting and writing (essays for my own understanding, not necessarily for Substack) have helped me become a better photographer — and not just from reading about photographers or taking in their work. My studies have also grown to include history, sociology, and anthropology, all with the purpose of better understanding us — people, humanity, and in particular, Americans.

I knew from the beginning that planting the flag of my first major project as an emerging artist, American Dream: A Portrait of America, was a grand, if not pretentious undertaking. I also knew that doing it right would come with the responsibility of educating myself.

And how can one come to understand a country, a society, or a people today without getting to know their past?

Thus, my photographic studies have come to encompass several disciplines together: photography, of course — photobooks, memoirs, biographies — as well as historical and social contexts.

At first, these studies were relatively random in nature — or should I say, I made personal choices of what and whom to study when. Though beneficial, there was no real cohesion or synergy to the selections. It was like doing coursework without a curriculum, and the shortcomings of this approach became apparent quickly.

So, I investigated MFA, photojournalism, and other graduate degrees programs for which to eventually apply. I am a lifelong student who recently finished a master’s degree in a work-related field (sport science), and had already been investigating doctoral programs, so the idea of additional formal education was not something I hesitated to continue.

But nothing seemed like a good fit, especially under the premise that I would have to take on student loans for a degree that I likely did not need.

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What I needed was structure, not a diploma.

And then it dawned on me — what if I built my own “MFA” program?

The Department Chair

Truth is, I didn’t do it completely on my own. I have leveraged artificial intelligence — namely ChatGPT — to help me create, organize, and recalibrate a personalized program. I do not want to make this about ways to leverage AI; however, I do think it sets the structural stage for the process.

The Personal MFA, as I have called it, consists of three separate chats within the platform. One serves as the place I go to continually adjust and calibrate the program — the metaphorical Department Chair.

And in lieu of one of the tangible benefits of an on-campus graduate degree — peers and faculty to help challenge and refine our thinking — there is a Theory Room / Office Hours chat that I use as a sounding board — a place to get feedback on the assignments I complete and the reflections I make along the way.

And finally, I used a third chat to help build the infrastructure for all of this in Notion — a place to organize the curriculum, track assignments, and store what I create, document, and learn along the way.

The Components of the Program

Overall, the curriculum contains four semesters, and within each semester are three seminars (each lasting around two months).

Each seminar contains reading and studying in the form of…

• Photobook studies focusing on one or two primary photographers

• Photography reading centered around “theory”

• Cultural context coming in the form of nonfiction books (largely historical or sociological in nature)

• “Elective” photobooks, supplementary to the primary photobooks, but studied less in depth

And then, there are “assignments”…

• “Labs” such as studying contact sheets or sequencing my own work

• “Field Work” — going out and making photographs with or without specific constraints

• Printing or Producing physical and tangible images/sequences

• Essays/Reflections used to synthesize what is learned and put into my own words

• Public Presentations via group stand-ups, critiques, and portfolio reviews

It all may sound like a lot — and to a certain extent, it is, and that is the point. However, the inherent value in creating an informal educational curriculum is that it is anything but rigid. I don’t have to do something that I don’t find useful, and I can go at my own pace. I use quotation marks around some of these terms because the point of all of this study and work isn’t simply to complete tasks, but to use them as a structured pathway to learning.

And ultimately, the thesis of the program is the American Dream project.

A Sample Seminar

“American Vernacular”
How does place shape identity? And how does emotional distance impact photographs?

Learning objectives:

• Observation

• Restraint

• American vernacular

• Signs

• Architecture

• Sequencing

• Emotional distance

Primary Photographer and Texts:

• American Photographs — Walker Evans

• Let Us Now Praise Famous Men — James Agee

Cultural Context:

• The Warmth of Other Suns — Isabel Wilkerson

Theory:

• The Ongoing Moment — Geoff Dyer

Elective Photographer and Texts

• The Bikeriders — Danny Lyon

• This Is My Life I’m Talking About — Danny Lyon

And within this seminar, there were two written essays, one sequencing assignment, one field assignment, and one photo critique.

Productive Resistance

One of the beauties of this process is that it moves in two directions. As I study, read, and apply, I not only learn about the topics of study, but also what interests me most (and will also most likely push my photographic work forward). Yet, at times, the curriculum pushes back, forcing me to consider work and ideas that I likely would not have otherwise.

For example, reading about the Civil Rights era has really resonated with me, and has led me to want to study it even more deeply, especially given my upbringing in the American South. And, I believe this will also help influence the work I do with the camera this fall when I travel back home for a few months. So I have spent additional time studying the historical context and photographers of that era.

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But the program has also challenged me in many ways. For example, Robert Frank is one of the photographers whose work has influenced me the most. Though I have studied his images in the past, this Personal MFA led me to study the sequencing of his work — something for which he is renowned. Though this resonated deeply with me — the symbolism, the ambiguity, the emotional tension — the program then encouraged me to turn to Walker Evans and his more clinical, precise, and emotionally distant work.

Learning Evans’ restraint and evidentiary approach to documentary photography forced me to reconsider what I had just absorbed from Frank. It was uncomfortable, but necessary. And it made for a strong educational rhythm that I likely would not have sequenced myself had I just been studying photobooks at random.

This is just one example of the productive resistance the program has created.

Similarly, there was a time that I figured studying photographic technique, aesthetics, and theory was what I needed to become a better photographer. And, of course, it was. But I have learned that, to produce the kind of work I am striving for, that is likely not enough. It is the historical and cultural context that is making the greatest difference in my approach these days.

Understanding the history of people, place, and society — who and what has come before us — has opened up lines of thinking and inquiry that I likely would not have considered had I not been encouraged to do the intellectual work.

Ultimately, the goal of my education as a photographer is to grow as an image maker and documentarian.

Whether it be within the walls of a university or structured with the help of AI, deep in the pages of textbooks and photobooks or out in the wild with the camera in hand, I have learned that the point of an education in photography is not just learning how to make better pictures.

It is the person behind the camera who stands to grow the most by learning about the world in front of it.

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Two weeks, two rolls of film.

That isn’t a lot by most folks’ standards. But I am only now in the exploratory phase — seeing if and where film might fit into my overall workflow and greater body of work.

Street Photography // Field Notes

Why I Waited Three Years to Shoot Film

I’ve resisted the temptation for years now…

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a month ago · 24 likes · 7 comments · Ryan Faer

For now, I am simply enjoying the process.

The thought of bringing two cameras with me wherever I go — now was is a new one for me, as I only own one camera. Which was exactly the last hold-up for me to begin shooting film — I currently own a Leica M10 Monochrom, and wanted to get my hands on a film camera that was as similar as possible. That way, the only variable to change between the two cameras would be the medium — switching between a digital sensor and film exposure.

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Two weeks ago, I was loaned an original M6, and so the great film experiment began.

Between wanting to continue producing work on digital (to keep the ball rolling on my long-term project work) and simply having limited time to photograph, one roll per week is about all I can manage. Yet, this works well for me at this stage.

For starters, I don’t simply want to drop the roll off at the shop or mailbox when I finish it. If I am going to take on film, I want to have my hands on every part of the process, from end to end, from exposure to development. So, each of the last two weeks, I have taken my finished roll to Out of Focus Club — a local photo/camera shop across the valley — where the owner and good friend of mine, Matt Stella, has been teaching me to develop on my own.

Likewise, the one-roll-per-week max takes the pressure off of me to doubly produce work with the limited time I have.

I have enjoyed learning to develop and after the second go-around, the process is way less daunting than it used to seem from the outside.

Still, there is a practical reality: chemicals, developing equipment, a copy stand, a macro lens or scanning setup, storage, and eventually a film camera of my own. At this stage, I am not ready to make the financial leap to go all in.

I still have a lot of evaluating to do first. But, I do have some immediate reactions, and they are are a mix of the expected and unexpected.

As expected, I have thoroughly enjoyed the more tactile, methodical process of making photographs with the film range-finder. The additional constraints are something I am actively leaning into. Do I wish I could confirm the image’s exposure afterwards? Of course, but the value of trying to nail the exposure via only a simple light meter and your own intuition of light — this has been a very positive challenge.

And, also to no surprise, the “film look” is beautiful.

What I did not fully anticipate, however, is how much post-production work can (should?) be done once the images are scanned. And I mean this in a positive sense (no pun intended).

I knew that digital negatives were just the starting base for the final image we make, and naturally the true negative from film would be similar. But, it simply did not resonate with me until I got hands on my first few rolls. The beauty of this is that I still get to make the photographs my own. I just assumed I would end up having two very distinct types of work in my portfolio — a digital aesthetic, and a film aesthetic. But that does not necessarily need to be the case.

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For example, the next three images are a combination of film and digital — can you determine which is which?

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Ultimately, the goal is not for them to be identical, but rather to be able to use either medium to collectively build a cohesive body of work. Not distinct groupings of work definable simply by the type of camera used. Cohesion is key for me.

What has still yet to be evaluated for me at this stage is how I like film for the type of photographs that I traditionally make.

Right now, because I am working on very specific projects and film is so new to me, my instincts are to grab the digital camera every time I sense an important interaction or meaningful photograph emerging. In my head, I intend to grab the film camera at some stage too, but by the time I do, the moment is gone. Thus, I have yet to make my kind of work yet with the camera. Instead, I have found myself photographing environments more than relationships.

I think what will eventually need to happen is simple: I will need to leave the digital camera at home. That way I have no other choice but to make my work on film that day.

At the moment, film still feels like an experiment. Two rolls are hardly enough to know whether it belongs in my long-term process. But that's exactly why I'm enjoying this stage. There are no conclusions yet—only questions. For now, that feels like the right place to be.

In the meantime, I thought I’d share a few early photographs from the experiment.

I’ve resisted the temptation for years now.

Film has always been there; well before I ever picked up a camera — well before I was even born, for that matter. And yet, despite all of the advancements in the digital era, film still remains. And for good reason.

I have managed thus far, however, to put off learning to photograph with film for over three years now. The biggest reason being that I wanted all of my efforts to be focused on development — development of the photographer, that is, not development of film.

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If you have followed my journey for much time, you will undoubtedly know my approach. Having only picked up the camera for the first time in my early thirties — and with very little time to actually go out and make photographs — I have committed to taking the same approach we teach our athletes to take in their long-term athletic development. As a Sport Scientist in professional baseball, I have seen innumerable examples of it working: intentional and deliberate practice, hard work, and consistency — it is a potent mixture. And when compounded over time, great things tend to happen.

With that approach applied to photography, I needed to ensure that there were no wasted repetitions with the camera. Each rep needed to push my development forward.

One might say that the constraint of film — only having 24-36 exposures per roll — would be more beneficial. And honestly, in terms of skill acquisition, there is a genuine case to be made for this approach. However, I instead opted for tighter feedback loops:

Make the photograph → See the photograph → Learn and adjust → Repeat

These feedback loops were iterative too: there was the instant feedback of viewing the image on the LCD screen, as well as the delayed feedback that came from reviewing the photographs in post. And, for the first few years of my journey, I would journal about the photowalk prior to that latter reviewing process. Regardless, this feedback loop is significantly tighter than what I would have experienced with film.

Still, over time I did add constraints. And I found they made my practice even more deliberate and intentional, and — to me — they made my images more impactful.

I moved from a traditional digital camera to a monochromatic sensor; then from an electronic viewfinder to a rangefinder; from autofocus to manual. And that is now how I make all of my work, with a Leica M Monochrom camera. Fully manual, black and white only.

I am a better photographer not for what I have.

I am better because of what I have deliberately chosen not to have.

And that is where film now enters the equation. After three-and-a-half years of photographic development, I feel comfortable beginning to incorporate film. Not move to film full-stop, but add it into the mix.

Most folks will talk to you about the filmic look. Sure, I am happy to experience that too. However, the choice to bring film into the fold now is, like all prior decisions for me, a matter of development.

Utilizing film introduces several more constraints to the equation. For starters, finite exposures — 24-36 images per roll. Could I limit myself to just 24-34 images with a digital camera? Certainly. But there is a reason true constraints-based learning is effective. It is in truly taking away options/choices that we are forced to adapt. There are no more extra shots. No more ahhh just one more photograph. Thirty six. That is all.

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Additionally, feedback loops are extended. There is no LCD to check after releasing the shutter, and no quick imports into Lightroom for review. You have to make the best decision you can in the moment, then wait to see what you actually made.

Not only that, with no LCD and just a simple internal light meter, I will have to understand light better. There is no making a guess and then checking the LCD to confirm the exposure, contrast, or composition. You are forced to learn it, to feel it, to nail it over time.

Thus, no color, no EVF, no autofocus, no zoom lenses — and now, with film, no LCD or instant feedback.

Every major decision I have made thus far with the camera has been about removing options, not adding them. And film will once again serve the same purpose.

A Fear of Film

That being said, there are several reasons incorporating film scares me.

For starters, I fear missing moments. I might make an image of a moment and not even know if I got what I wanted until well after the moment has passed, and that is an unsettling feeling. It induces uncertainty.

Additionally, uncertainty also comes from adding choice. And, in a way, adding film gives me more of a choice than I have ever really had with the camera. By simply adding a film camera into the mix, I have added one major option: I now have two cameras and a decision to make:

Do I make this image on film, or digital?

Uncertainty is a challenge, especially considering the investment of time and energy that we make in our photographs. But learning to tolerate uncertainty—to make a decision and keep going—is part of nearly every worthwhile pursuit.

Film removes choices within the act of photographing, but adding film creates a new choice before the photograph is made.

So, I decided that I would not shoot film until I could control for as many extraneous variables as possible. Choosing a rangefinder film camera with a 35mm lens — that would isolate film as the only significant variable that changes from my work on digital.

The decision then truly becomes one of medium: do I want an image to be on digital or film? There is still some worry about whether I will miss the moment, but the likelihood of that happening will only lessen with patience, practice, and persistence over time.

Embracing the Process

I know that this period of time is going to come with compromise. I am going to miss moments, and surely I am going to blow an entire roll at some point.

But that is fine with me, as it is all in service of “the greater good” — moving my body of work forward in the long-term by improving my competencies with the camera.

Because for three years now, every major decision I’ve made has been guided by the same question:

What will help me become a better photographer?

For a long time, the answer simply was not film.

But now I think film belongs in that answer.

Not because film is inherently better than digital, but because I finally feel ready for what film asks of me.

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It’s been three years now since I bought my first camera — a Fujifilm XT-30ii from some fella’ on Facebook Marketplace.

At the time, I didn’t exactly know what I was doing or why. I just knew I needed something.

One year prior, in 2022, I laid to rest my first dog, Fetty, after her battle with cancer. In her absence stood a gaping hole between me and the only other thing I had in my life: my career. So, after a year of trying to figure out what to do, I bought a camera and started filling the void with photographs.

It wasn’t for another little while yet that I realized what I was really after: photographing life — people and place — as a means to better understand the world around me, and as a means to better understand myself. Sometime in 2023, I began walking the outskirts of town with the camera. Discovering “street photography” before I ever really knew what it was.

Incrementally I learned more about the genre, proper, and in 2024 took my first excursion into downtown Phoenix, hesitantly pointing the camera in the general direction of people.

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I took the camera with me everywhere I went. On dog walks and into the store. On hikes and on bike rides. People probably thought I was barking mad. Especially when I pointed the camera in their direction. And even more so when I posted my images online, where I had a prior following of coaches and athletes who had tuned in many years before for sports science and performance insights.

Though I had no idea what I was doing at the time, I did know one thing: I wanted to be great at it, no matter what it took or how long.

Naturally, this was not understood by most. People unfollowed me online. Many folks asked questions about the whole “camera-thing” I was doing. And I could feel many others tiptoeing around it altogether, clearly avoiding the topic.

Who could blame them? It was new for me, and I was not good at it. At all.

I felt like a fraud at times.

But I also knew better… I was building something. I just had to give it time.

This period of my photography journey reminded me an awful lot of when I first started coaching. I was eighteen-years old, a college student and volunteer high school baseball coach. I vividly recall being in the local pizza shop — Tom’s Pizza — in our little downtown in Central Florida when the parent of a former high school teammate of mine saw me and said, “I heard you are helping out the team this year. That is just so sweet.” And with a pat of my shoulder, they took their boxed pizza and walked out the door.

Sweet? I remember thinking. I was volunteering 60-plus hour weeks in addition to attending my classes in Kinesiology. I was watering the field, cleaning the clubhouse, pouring my heart into the players. Not to mention spending all of my free time doing self-study on strength and conditioning.

Sure, to everybody else I was just a volunteer nobody back then — a “sweet” kid — but I was building something. It just needed time.

And that is how I felt in the first few years with the camera. People may not have understood what I was doing or why, and they certainly couldn't have known where it might lead — but I knew.

Not specifically, of course. I am still not sure where the camera will ultiamtely take me. But, what I did know then was that the hard work would amount to something worthwhile. I just had to keep going.

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So, just like the play I ran for baseball — where I took four hard years of volunteer work during my undergraduate degree (both as a high school baseball coach and as an intern collegiate strength coach) and turned it into a now decade-plus career in professional baseball — I have been running the same play for photography.

Deep learning.
Deliberate practice.
Mentorship and feedback.
Photowalks and portfolio reviews.
Reading the textbooks and studying the photobooks.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of hours that few people have seen.

When you think about it, the entire process is an act of faith. We work this hard with no assurances that it will amount to anything. After all, hard work only matters if it leads to progress, development, and growth. And yet, we put in the hours, the blood and sweat and tears, because we trust it will pay off in some way.

Where I am now with photography is an encouraging place. It feels just like when I got my foot in the door of professional baseball for the first time, securing an internship with the Los Angeles Dodgers back in 2014.

As a college senior at the time, the job did not pay a dime (if anything, it cost me money to move and live away from home for those four months), nor did it promise me anything afterwards. However, it was affirmation that my hard work had amounted to something recognizable to others. For them to take a flyer and give a young buck a chance. It opened doors, not just for jobs (the Dodgers hired me full-time after that), but for greater learning, which in turn would accelerate my growth. These opportunites are not the ends, they are the means — just like the work itself.

And that is how this current moment feels for me with the camera.

Three years ago I bought a used camera because I needed something to hold onto.

And this summer, five of my photographs will hang in a museum in Washington, D.C.

The exhibition isn’t the destination.

It is simply another reminder that invisible work has a way of becoming visible. We just have to stay with it long enough.

And with that, I'm incredibly grateful to share the next step in the journey.

From July 30th through October 18th of 2026, five of my photographs will hang on the wall alongside the work of an incredible collection of artists of various genres and media.

Passport to Patriotism: 250 Years of Diplomacy is an exhibition hosted by the Art Museum of the Americas in our nation’s capital, presented by the U.S. Department of State’s Art in Embassies office, in partnership with the American Art Conservancy.

“Bringing together works that reflect the United States’ history, values, and icons — the exhibition invites visitors to explore how art transcends geography, politics, and boundaries to tell the American story.”

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Given the subject of my long-term project — American Dream: A Portrait of America — the Fourth of July naturally stands out as a day to get out with the camera. To document Americans celebrating in ways they believe are most American. Fireworks, cookouts, parades and the like.

This year, rather than photographing the fireworks at night, I chose to head out in the morning to a local event in a nearby suburb — a Walk ‘n’ Wheel parade where parents and kids decorate their bikes, scooters, and golf carts and ride on through the small-town downtown of Verrado, Arizona.

I arrived just before the event was due to kick-off and immediately began navigating the scene with the camera. What I saw was quintessential made-for-television suburbia. Parents with their lawn chairs; hundreds of kids racing around the street on bikes; tassels and ribbons and stars and stripes.

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Here comes the firetruck! I heard the PA announcer for the event holler into the microphone.

And to my left I saw what I had failed to notice as I was making photographs: a bright red fire engine had backed up not 10 feet behind me, and two firefighters were snapping their hose into place on the nearest hydrant. My gaze traced the hose from street level up to the side and to the top of the fire truck where a third fireman readied the nozzle.

Are we ready kids? The announcer yelled to the crowd.

To my right and facing the firetruck was a wall of children at the ready. And there I found myself in the crosshairs, right in between the firemen and their intended targets.

In that brief moment, I weighed my options:

Get out of the line of fire and photograph the deluge as a (dry) observer from the sidelines?

Or hold my ground with my camera and become a (soaked) participant in the action?

I looked down at my Leica, unable to recall how weather-sealed it was.

But I had made my decision.

I chose to get closer to the photograph. And the camera survived.

Physical Proximity

Driving away from that Fourth of July event, soaked from head to toe in the seat of my car — I had not yet seen the photographs, but I already knew I had made the right decision.

Not because of the experience itself, but because it was the same decision that I had made many times before. A decision that, more often than not, has led to some of my favorite images.

The decision to get closer to the photograph instead of farther away.

But getting closer doesn't always mean taking risks or embracing discomfort. Instead, it means choosing proximity in whatever way is necessary. In the case of this past Fourth of July, it was physical.

Sometimes the shortest distance between us and a better photograph is a simple step forward.

Relational Proximity

Other times, choosing proximity means connecting with people before the images are made.

Ironically, just a handful of weeks prior I was involved in another drenching situation. I came across an entire neighborhood of kids out in the streets of Cleveland, Ohio, playing in the water from uncapped fire hydrants.

These types of photographs live in the lore of street photography history, so encountering a situation with this kind of potential immediately got me excited. However, as much as I just wanted to dive right into making photographs, it was important to me to establish myself within the environment first.

Before ever releasing the shutter, I canvassed the front porches along the intersection to speak with the adults on site. I explained who I was and what I was about:

“My name is Ryan. I am a documentary street photographer. I just saw the water coming down the street and had to check out what was going on. This is awesome for the kids! If y’all don’t mind, I’d love to take a few photos while I am here? I don’t want to cause any trouble, though, so if not, no worries at all.”

Their willingness to have me there allowed me to comfortably settle into the scene as it unfolded, not worrying about who I might upset. That is, until I heard some shouting from behind me.

“Heck no! Don’t you take photos of my child!”, a woman shouted from one of the porches that I only then realized I had missed.

I stopped making photographs and walked over, nervous that I had just become a perceived intruder, possibly ending my time photographing the activity. However, after apologizing profusely, the group of parents on the porch encouraged me to stay as long as I liked.

Ultimately, this is what I would consider a core memory for me in my photography journey, and I have at least one image that will probably stay with me forever. And it all hinged on what seemed, at the time, like a small, almost imperceptible decision.

So often in street photography, we think of courage as shooting first. In reality, this moment required something different.

Unlike the Fourth of July, boldness came not from standing in the water, but walking onto the porch first.

Emotional Proximity

There are also times when physical proximity plays a vital role in the picture-making process. This happened to be the case with one of my favorite images — a portrait of Tim.

I met the man within the first five minutes of an early spring photowalk in Cleveland this year. I came across a vehicle parked on the side of Prospect Avenue, with American flags, ribbons, and decals all over it. At the time, I thought the car was empty, so I got in really close, only to be startled by someone popping the laid-back driver seat up and rolling down the window.

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I apologized for invading his space, and then introduced myself. Tim shook my hand and launched into his story — about how he was trekking across the country to get to Washington, D.C. for the celebration of America’s 250th Anniversary, and all about his journey to that point. And not just his recent past, but nearly his entire life story.

As I listened, I knelt down next to the open car window, forearm propped up on the door. I did not photograph at all, but eventually thought the moment too great, his story too strong to not photograph him as he recounted it.

I weighed my options.

• Should I ask him to step outside and make a portrait with the vehicle? It felt like this would really break the emotional connection between the viewer and the story he was telling.

• Maybe I could come around to the driver side and make an image from just outside of the window? Sure, he could keep telling his story, but we would lose an awful lot of context.

• Or maybe, just maybe, I could get my camera into the vehicle — photograph him as he told his story while we were seemingly in there right beside him?

As Tim told his story, I moved the camera through the open window and gave a little gesture — not enough to interrupt him, but enough to insinuate my request for permission. He nodded his consent and I carefully composed the photograph while listening to the rest of his tale.

This decision — how to compose a portrait of Tim — was an ordinary one. We are always weighing our options for making images. But it was the choice to move closer physically that ultimately brought the viewer close to Tim emotionally.

Collaborative Proximity

Sometimes this proximity comes, however, by allowing others to be a participant in their own photograph.

I know, this sounds counterintuitive, but hear me out: just because we are photographing someone else, it does not mean we are letting them be a full stakeholder in the image-making process.

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This is normal in a lot of cases. However, the interaction can become stronger — and the photographs more powerful — when we give those we photograph some stake in the process. Considering not just the photograph we want to make, but how they might like to be photographed.

I was recently photographing a new public basketball court in Downtown Cleveland with a fantastic local street photographer (and ambassador to the city), . Though I was certainly intrigued by those competing, there were these two kids — brothers as it turned out — that caught my attention as they dribbled alongside the court. What a cool image could be made, I thought, if I could catch the adults playing on the court and the kids playing just off of it.

After we had hung out with the entire crew for 30 minutes or so and eventually met the boys’ parents, Doriyan began making polaroids with the kids. The boys were delighted.

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I did not want to infringe upon their portraits, so I took my attention elsewhere. However, a few minutes later, the boys asked me if I was going to photograph them too.

Before I could revert back to my original idea for the photo, the brothers began directing me, and I stopped trying to be the sole author of the image. Instead, the boys and I became co-authors.

Take our photo here.

Now, just me.

Now this way — no, no, that way.

Okay here! Now there!

In most of the photos that I made, they proudly showed off their polaroid from . And, not a single part of this was scripted or coached by the photographer. It was all the children. They took ownership of the process, bringing us all closer to the photograph.

The decision to relinquish control seemed inconsequential at the time. But it was this partnership that ultimately made the images ours.

A Philosophy of Proximity

Thinking back on the Fourth of July, the key for me wasn’t in the waterworks. Rather, it was the realization of what seems to be driving my work these days.

Getting closer.

Closer to the people.

Closer to the moment.

Closer to the photograph.

What this asks of us, as photographers, can differ in each and every scenario.

Sometimes, it asks us to jump right into the action and get soaked in the process.

Other times, it asks us to listen before we press the shutter.

And sometimes, it asks us to give up some of our artistic control.

But in nearly every case, it asks us to find a way to get just a little bit closer.

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I have found myself making fewer street portraits lately.

This might seem like a strange shift for me at first. Street portraiture has become a staple of my photographic journey thus far. It has taught me how to approach and connect with strangers, and has also been a key to me becoming increasingly comfortable with the camera out in the world.

So, why the change?

The goal isn’t actually to make fewer portraits.

It is to become less dependent on them. Because portraiture, alone, has never been the end-game. It was simply the training ground.

What Portraiture Taught Me

I remember the early days of my street portraiture. It was not interacting with people that gave me pause. It was the possibility of wasting their time by making a bad photograph. And in turn, I put an awful lot of pressure on myself.

However, one of the first things I learned about street portraiture was this:

Photgraphs are made between people, not by cameras.

But that does not mean the photographer is absent from the process. Quite the opposite, in fact. Strong images often come from a partnership between the people on either side of the camera. And it is the photographer’s responsibility to create the conditions for this kind of genuine connection.

Not settings, composition, or camera choice.
But connection, empathy, and personal investment.

There is an important distinction that I would be remiss to make: there is a difference between flattering somebody and connecting with them. Both can lead to a proper portrait, but it is the latter that helps ensure the process transcends the transactional. Rather than a compliment traded for an image, it is a photograph made together as partnership. Making the other person truly feel seen, and not just by the lens.

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Ironically, this is in part why I have started to shift my emphasis away from portraiture on the street. Not because the portraits themselves were transactional, but because my pursuit of them started to feel that way. Even if subconsciously, it can become a sort of scouting process — I found myself evaluating people before I even met them.

Would this person make a good photgraph?

Intead of:

Who is this person?

But this does not mean avoiding portraits. Rather, it has meant re-orienting how I view them as a part of my own process.

A piece of the of the work, not the whole.

Not the destination, but the doorway.

The Unexpected Application

Not every photograph warrants an interaction with people. However, it has been in some of the most meaningful moments of my photographic journey so far that these lessons have paid off.

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One example is my documentary work for The Boyhood Project, where I photographed over several months the relationship between a father and his twelve-year old son, a boxing prodigy named Julian. The photographs became easier as time went on, and not just because they got used to me being there — given the young boy’s successes in the ring, he is no stranger to media attention. Rather, the process became easier because the relationship deepened over time. Many training sessions were spent chatting more than photographing. We became friends, and the photographs followed.

We don’t always get months to build a relationship like this. A connection can still be made, however, even in just a few mere minutes. There are a handful of examples from my own work as recent as the last few weeks.

For instance, after following what looked like a river of water coursing down a neighborhood street in Cleveland two weeks ago, I came upon an entire block of kids playing in open fire hydrants on the streets. Rather than simply flying through and shooting from the hip, or photographing from afar with a longer lens, I approached the surrounding, watchful families and struck up some conversation; I introduced myself and my intentions, building rapport. After sharing some time and some laughs, I waded into the flood with my camera, sensing the group’s implicit permission to begin photographing.

And, just a week or two later, I chose a very similar approach to photographing a public basketball court in downtown Cleveland. I took the time to embed myself into the environment — the micro-culture of the group — and eventually found myself photographing the ballplayers from within the action, and their kids on the sidelines.

Though these were not street portraits, it was portraiture that taught me lessons that enabled moments like this. Many people think the goal is to become invisible with the camera. Ironically, street portraiture taught me something different: it taught me how to make the camera fade away, not the photographer.

How to become an accepted observer or, when appropriate, a welcomed participant.

It is in these moments — whether portrait or candid — that people stop performing and simply go back to living.

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Though at one time portraiture was a major landmark for me with the camera, it was never truly the destination. Instead, it became a learning journey that taught me the importance of personal connection.

How to approach strangers with kindness and positive regard; how to build trust in a short period of time; how to be a positive presence with the camera rather than an intruder; how becoming a welcomed participant can deepen the impact of a photograph.

Not every moment or photograph calls for that kind of interaction. Nor should it. But sometimes, it is the simple act of showing up with curiosity, respect, and genuine interest in another person that creates the conditions for a more honest photograph.

In the end, street portraiture taught me not only how to photograph people, but how to be with them in their moments.

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We all have our reasons to make photographs.

For a while, I felt it was simply a means of documenting the world around me while exercising my creativity through self-expression. And, to a certain degree, this still holds true. However, I have learned that the camera is more than that for me, that it serves another purpose in my life:

At first, I thought it was simply an excuse.

An excuse to do and be things I never thought I would do. An excuse to experience moments I would have never otherwise. An excuse to see and meet people beyond the confines of my own little world.

But the more I have reflected on it, the more I have realized that excuse isn’t quite the right word.

The camera hasn’t given me an excuse.

It has given me permission.

Permission to be myself.

Despite working in an extroverted field — coaching and sports performance — for the last decade and a half, and doing so enjoyably, I have often felt that I chose a slight mismatch for myself in a career.

You see, if you asked me, I would confidently describe myself as an introvert. And, working in a professional sporting environment — with players, coaches, and other teammates — is a role that very much requires what extroverted qualities we each possess.

Although I emphatically love what I do, I would be disingenuous if I said I didn’t find myself mentally and emotionally drained from the work.

And yet, something rather strange happens when I walk the streets with my camera. One might think I would keep to myself — hide behind the camera, become invisible. However, it is in fact the opposite. I walk the streets with an openness that I find attracts folks, both to make an image together and to converse.

These moments, however, do not leave me drained. Rather, they fill me up.

At first, I could not really explain why this was the case. Why would interactions sometimes leave me drained, yet other times leave me recharged?

What I have come to realize is that the difference isn’t the people.

It is the performance.

I love what I do at work, but the role asks me to be polished, composed, and “on.”

On the streets, however, I get to be that same me, but turned off. I get to let my guard down, because there is no one to impress, no one to serve, and no role to perform.

In this way, the camera has become a great compliment to my working life. It has given me permission to take the pressure off from trying to be the “best” me, and just be whoever I am in that moment.

Permission to meet people.

Conversations occur all the time on the streets, like just yesterday when I met a woman at a new basketball court in downtown Cleveland. We leaned up against the fence surrounding the court and talked about Cleveland and Phoenix, and we talked about each other.

Simple, carefree, and unvarnished, it was that conversation among others that helped ingratiate me with the people on the court so that they were comfortable with the camera being used in their presence.

Without the camera, I might have never met this person, and without her, I might not have gotten to know the rest of the crew there that night.

The Boyhood Project is another example of people I likely would have never met without the camera. This project centers around photographing the relationship between a 12-year old boxing prodigy and his father.

Photography led me to a neighborhood boxing gym where that pair were training, and through hours of time spent together, a relationship was development. Photographs just so happened to have been made along the way.

In this way, the camera has given me permission to meet, connect with, and build relationships — even if only fleeting at times — with people that I otherwise would have never gotten the chance to get to know.

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Permission to go places.

The camera has also opened me up to experiences I might not otherwise have had. To go places and see things that were beyond the scope of my own little world, inspiring and challenging me to explore the country and my own backyard alike.

The American Dream project has given me reason to make stops on my work travels whenever possible — Chicago for a day here, Boston for a day there. It has made me look forward to road trips. It has urged me to venture beyond the places one would normally stay while traveling, venturing beyond downtowns and tourist attractions in search of the places where life is truly being lived.

Take my monthly work trips to Cleveland, Ohio, for example. Without the camera, I would just fly into Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, catch a ride to my hotel in the city, and then walk to the stadium and back for work each day. But thanks to the camera, I have seen places and met people that have brought joy, inspiration, and perspective to my life.

Just a few weeks back, I met Victor, an attendant for a parking lot on the banks of Lake Erie, who told me stories of his 35 years working that spot — The Pit, as they call it.

The very next day, I walked three miles to Central — a small neighborhood on the east side of Cleveland — and made photographs with kids and their families as they played in open fire hydrants in the middle of their neighborhood.

And when I am home in Phoenix, Arizona, I more often than not wander away from downtown proper and toward the margins of town where civilization begins to fade into desert. Here, I have watched as the land and its people live while the rural desert around them slowly gets paved over, renovated, and built upon.

Anybody can get out into the communities. Nothing is stopping you or me. The camera has just become a very good excuse for me to do so.

Or at least that’s what I used to think.

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As I write this, I find myself understanding more clearly how the camera ultimately serves me.

It has unintentionally helped me to feel secure enough to let my guard down and be myself and experience places I otherwise wouldn’t.

So maybe the camera isn’t just an excuse after all? Instead, maybe it is a kind of permission.

Permission to enter unfamiliar places.

Permission to begin conversations with strangers.

Permission to slow down.

And maybe most importantly, permission to simply be myself.

Looking back, I don’t think that’s what I set out to find in photography.

But maybe that is what photography has given me after all.

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There is plenty of commentary about America these days.

Whether it be online or on television, it is hard to avoid hearing about all that we have seemingly lost: community and connection, purpose within ourselves, trust in one another.

There is undoubtedly some truth to this talk. I mean, things surely don’t look anything like they once did, do they?

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Yet, over the course of a week, I found something different on the streets of Cleveland, Ohio.

Not nostalgia, nor stories of how things used to be.

But rather, a reason to hope for more promising possibilities; hints that some things continue to endure. People living in — and actively building — the kinds of communities we often assume no longer exist.

I circled downtown proper many of my mornings in Cleveland last week, walking amongst the rush of folks commuting to work. In fact, I spent over an hour alone photographing a parking lot in town that has been given the name The Pit. Pinned right in between Lake Erie and the Cleveland Memorial Shoreway, the lot gets its name from its topography — resting in a pit well below street-level. Presiding over the lot’s entrance, positioned high above the parking spaces, is the parking attendant named Victor.

The parking lot itself is quite photogenic. There is quite a bit of overgrown foliage, and off in the distance a train will occasionally rumble by while barges are loaded with shipping containers on the lake’s shore. There are relics of the past strewn about the lot, including an unused security turnstile. And, because the cars are parked at the base of a long hill, folks must breathlessly walk with vigor up and out of the pit.

The lot sees hundreds of vehicles coming each morning where most folks pay the $5 to park their vehicle and walk to the nearby Courthouse — clerks, lawyers, witnesses, defendants.

Each one is greeted by Victor, who has worked at this lot, specifically, for over thirty years. His big, booming and accented baritone caught my attention just as I got to the lot. Good morning! he would shout to the regulars as they approached in their vehicles. And, the newbies? Well, if they followed the signs, he greeted them the same. And, if they tried to cut the line or go through a closed lane, Victor could be heard hollering, often in Spanish, “¿Qué estás haciendo, loca?” Yet, once they straightened up, they too received a warm welcome.

The way Victor ran the entrance to The Pit was a clear sign of his love for the job — stern, but with a firm touch.

With three decades of experience in the area, he had a lot to tell me. We chatted for quite some time while he worked. One arm on the ticket machine controlling the boom arm, Victor would assist a driver with paying for their parking pass, and then turn to me for conversation.

We talked about where we are both from and where we have been. Victor’s story predominantly revolved around Cleveland. He lives on his own with two dogs — Lola and Loco — and a handful of chickens.

“And I have people”, he said, “That is enough.”

But these days, time with his people is different than it was decades ago. People in every and any neighborhood used to just hang out together.

“Those days are gone”, he says flatly as another driver pulls up.

Victor turns from me to the driver and takes her card. “Tap to pay works, yes m’am”. He presses her card to the machine as she looks away disconnected and impatient — clearly new to The Pit.

“But me, I have a house at the very end of a dead-end street. I have benches for people to come sit on.” His hardened expression softens to a smile. “After church on Sundays, the people come to my house. I make food. We play games. Like the ole’ days.”

Victor turns from me back to the queuing line of traffic. It is rush hour.

“WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING?” his voice booms past me toward a car in the wrong lane. I look back and the driver is laughing behind the wheel. Victor elbows me and chuckles, “I know her. An old friend.”

It seems as though many of the customers become friends with the attendant.

And though he mourned the days gone by, it seemed to me as though Victor had actually found a way to preserve them — building a community both at work and at home.

Later in the week, I walked three miles from my hotel in Downtown to the eastern part of the city named MidTown. Out there, I found abandoned buildings and forgotten playgrounds standing alongside a revitalized business infrastructure.

It was a hot, sticky summer day, and as evening drew to a close and I pressed in on two-plus hours of photographing, I made the turn to head back toward my hotel. Tired and dehydrated, I was ready for bed.

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But, rather than retracing my steps on Carnegie Avenue back to the hotel, I decided to swing further south on my return. After walking a few blocks down Central Avenue, I noticed an inordinate amount of water gushing down one of the side streets. My curiosity took over, and I steered my steps upstream.

Another block and around the bend I saw what I desperately hope for when I first saw the water: two fire hydrants were wide open, flooding the roads with water in the middle of a neighborhood four-way stop. Kids by the tens were out in the intersection, jumping through the water, shooting each other with water guns, hydroplaning in shopping carts.

Parents lined the sidewalks and sat on their porches. Some grilling, some just kicking it with others, all watching their kids. Naturally, I had reservations as I approached the scene. A thirty-something year-old adult; a passerby; a stranger. Walking around with a camera, unannounced, photographing kids. I am not sure if that was ever really acceptable, but today it seems even less advisable.

It is a situation I had never been in, but an opportunity I could hardly walk away from. I thought of my father telling me about moments like these in New York City back in the 70’s. And I thought of Sage Sohier’s work, with kids playing in the streets (one photograph, specifically, involving open fire hydrants).

I decided to give it a go, but not without first talking to as many parents as possible. I found the nearest adult and introduced myself. I commented how great it was to see the kids just out here having fun together as they try to beat the heat.

“We don’t have a waterpark. So we make our own.”

Ultimately, every parent I talked to allowed me to stay. And the kids? “The Camera Man”, as they called me, got peppered with more requests than he could keep up with to take their photographs.

Although the situation was a little stressful for me — being mindful of the fact that I was an outsider — it was a beautiful moment. Maybe this happens all the time in various parts of America, but it is not anything that I have yet come across. It felt like a moment from another time, and yet it was just this week. Nobody planned it, branded it, or curated it. It just happened, unscripted.

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In the process, I hugged one of the parents who told me their story; I partnered with the kids to make photographs, asking them where and how they wanted their picture taken and with which of their friends or family members, and made sure to show them the pictures on the camera’s LCD; my lens got splashed, my pants soaked in shin-deep city water, and my entire walk back was in soaked leather shoes.

On the west side of Cleveland there is a small neighborhood named Ohio City.

Despite being one of Cleveland’s oldest neighborhoods, it is remarkably well preserved. Homes from the 19th and 20th centuries still stand, and their inhabitants are out on their front porches.

I stop to make a handful of photographs, then continue to push out west. As I round a corner onto 38th Street, I sense something familiar: a handful of kids, not more than ten years old, out on a wide open baseball field in the middle of the park.

Fairview Park’s ballfield has no outfield fence, and kids dot the field like white clover flowers dot the grass which expands from the infield clay all the way to the park’s perimiter. I stop to watch, not only struck by the memories of my own youth playing baseball on a field not unlike this one in Ohio City, but by the timelessness of the moment.

As I photographed, one of the coaches — her name was Misty — told me all about the league and how they work to help the kids. Unlike other youth leagues, this one has no borders.

“You can come from any part of town and we will accept your child. This isn’t like the rest of the leagues or travel-ball outfits,” she explained. And I could clearly see it.

Kids of all kinds laced up their spikes that day. Boys and girls, athletic and awkward, confident and self-conscious. And as this diverse bunch whooped and hollered around the field, I watched Coach Misty and several other parent-coaches rein in all of that youthful energy; encouraging and reinforcing not only the tactics of the game, but life lessons.

This wasn’t just a place to drop off the kids or wear them out. It was a place of gathering. A community coming together for something that — though ordinary and seemingly insignificant — was so much bigger than themselves.

Over the course of a week in Cleveland, I kept stumbling upon the same thing.

A parking attendant who hosts neighbors after church.

Parents cooling off an entire neighborhood by cracking open the fire hydrants.

Coaches volunteering their time to children on a ballfield.

We spend so much time talking about what America has seemingly lost, and so very little time recognizing what still remains:

Community, fellowship, connection. Grit, resourcefulness, resilience. And most of all, people looking after one another.

That is what I think of when I think of America. And that is what I found on the streets of Cleveland last week.

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Despite arriving to the hotel just before midnight, I rose with the sun this morning and took to the streets with my camera, as I do every day that I am in town.

I walked the usual routes. Euclid and Prospect Avenue, 9th Street and Huron Road, through The Arcade and down to The Flats. Though the seasons have already changed since the last time I was here — cold and damp just six weeks ago has yielded to warm and clear today — familiarity hangs in the air around me.

Though I walk with a bit of haste, I find myself slowing down ocassionally. A bus stop, a mural, a monument. On their own, they are unremarkable places. But I no longer see them that way.

Here and there I had made photographs, yes, but with those images come memories of moments, conversations, and connections.

This is the value of returning to a place. Not simply to get to know it better, but to better understand ourselves.

Over time, the photographs we make become landmarks — serving as memory and reminder of our past selves — what we felt, who we met, and where we were as photographers at the time.

Superior Avenue

At the corner of Superior Avenue and East Roadway, a bus stop sits in the shadow of a monumental courthouse with some of the finest classical architecture in the city.

A beautiful backdrop for a photograph. Yet a challenging environment under most conditions. It is early morning, and there are people from all walks of life heading to school and work. It is not exactly a welcoming place for a photographer at 6:30 or 7:00am.

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However, as I walk past this bus stop now, I remember one of the times that I decided to take a chance on the spot— making portraits with a group of kids as they waited for their bus to school.

I remember my hesitation, their laughter, and the moment I knew we had made something special.

The photograph mattered, but it is the moment the has stayed.

Euclid Avenue Mural

This time last year, I was still learning what I wanted to say with the camera.

I would walk a lot and pass people and places that intrigued me. And yet, more often than not, I would keep walking without making a single image.

Like this mural, which I passed by dozens of times over the course of several trips without so much as one photograph.

Until one morning, I finally decided to stop and wait in front of it.

Click.

The photograph came together in an instant. But what keeps coming back to me now every time I pass the mural is the memory of that morning — when I stopped walking by and finally decided to stay.

Public Square

There is a long story to tell with this particular photograph amongst a handful of others made at the same location. However, what I remember most about this moment was the sheer excitment I felt as I approached the scene.

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A car was parked near Public Square, and on the back of it, stood up tall against stiff westward gale of wind, was a large, tattered American Flag. I immediately recognized the potential of the moment and quickly got to work.

What occurred afterward, though, is what has become the core memory for me — meeting the driver of the vehicle (who, unbeknownst to me, was fast asleep in the car as I made this image), hearing his story, and making a portrait together.

After the photographs, he asked if I had any spare change. I went looking for an ATM but, unable to find one, returned with a hot coffee and breakfast sandwich. Taking the food, he thanked me, and then walked over to a nearby man living on the street.

“He needs it more,” he told me.

Every time I return to this spot, that’s the story I remember.

Walking Cleveland this morning, I realized what it means to know a place. To navigate it not by street signs, but by photographs and memories.

And that is one of the greatest gifts the camera can give us. Not just photographs of a place, but landmarks of memory. A reason to keep coming back.

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One of my goals with paid subscriptions is to bring readers closer to the process—not just the finished photographs, but the questions, experiments, successes, and failures that shape them.

Each month I’ll share a behind-the-scenes look at what I’m studying, what I’m photographing, and where the American Dream project is…

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Lately, I’m noticing a gap in my work.

Thanks to feedback from those that I trust and all of the study I’ve been doing, I recognize a significant space for growth, especially as it pertains to my American Dream project.

Right now, my work largely revolves around people in public, people in motion, people up close and personal, and people from afar, all of which take place out in the city streets.

People passing through life and place.

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What I’m missing, I’ve realized, is people living life, and their belonging to place.

In the context of my project, American Dream, I feel like I have learned to photograph Americans in public. Now, I am looking to turn my attention toward another layer: learning to photograph America in context.

People Passing Through Life

Ironically, my early work began photographing what could more closely be described as everyday life: rural Central Florida, where I was born and raised, and the outskirts of Phoenix close to where I live now. In both regions, I began by walking the neighborhood streets, with camera in hand, photographing the places where life passed slowly.

But my aim wasn’t necessarily to photograph people in any specific kind of way, but rather to get experience doing what I had come to know of street photography. These were the regions I felt most comfortable exploring, so I used them as my practice grounds.

And once I got more comfortable doing this sort of street photography, I began taking to the more traditional downtown city streets, like those of Phoenix and Cleveland.

Out on metro streets, I learned to photograph people from afar as they moved through crosswalks, intersections, and alleyways. Then, I learned to get closer to the action, through both candid work as well as street portraiture.

There are a lot of reasons to photograph out in public spaces, high-traffic areas with people either on the go or visiting. For starters, there’s opportunity even in the slowest of cities (like Phoenix often is) to see substantially more people than the suburbs. This, for me, provided ample reps for photographic development: learning to build a scene, recognize a moment, and connect with strangers.

Additionally, larger metro areas provide variety. You have the chance to photograph all sorts of people – adults, teenagers, children, skateboarders, business folks, those who struggle, those who thrive.

And at the intersection of variety and opportunity comes performance, either taking the shape of spectacle — the absurd, funny, exciting, dramatic — or the shape of presentation: people portraying what they want others to see in them.

In many ways, it is like photographing life playing out on a stage. But, this is a necessary part of photographing a people. Culturally, it’s vital to show others as they wish to portray themselves out in the open.

Complementary, however, is to pull the curtain back and photograph life as it’s being lived. Not just people passing through the place, but rather those who belong to it.

People Living Life

People out in the world are busy, on a schedule, dressed for occasion. They are saving time, not necessarily spending it. And to photograph this is to reveal a public identity.

Behind the metaphorical curtain, however, our world slows down. We have routines, we practice the mundane, we let our guard down. A personal identity is formed, as well as a communal one.

On the block, at the park or county fair, in the mechanic’s garage or neighbor’s front porch, at the church picnic or homocoming parade — a much more natural and personal identity is inhabited. People belong to these spaces. It is life being lived, not passed through.

Photographing these two sides of our lives does not need to be done in opposition. Rather, together they can provide different information, revealing a more holistic understanding about what it means to be human in America today.

What this seems to require, however, is an evolution in approach. Where so much of traditional street photography requires opportunity, anticipation, and observation, an attempt to dive deeper into the subculture of a place seems to ask for access and, oftentimes, participation.

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Both in the literal sense — being able to photograph, say, a community event — and metaphorically speaking: positioning oneself as a non-threatening and positive presence in the open with the camera such that people allow you into their “private” world. It is one thing to photograph people on neutral turf. It is another to be on their home turf. The challenge is not simply finding different subjects. It is earning different kinds of access.

How do we manage this?

Well, I am still trying to figure that out. But in the last few weeks, I have pushed myself to work in new places with the camera. Last weekend, I entered a laundromat and made images of folks waiting for their laundry — a Sunday ritual for many.

I also made images of a girl playing soccer with her father in the park — a weekend bonding moment shared by many a parent and child.

And several weeks ago I walked the small sidestreets on the outskirts of town and ended up making a portrait with a gentleman while he sat on his porch before going to work.

What I can tell you is that these opportunities did not actually ask much more of me and my approach than usual: I strived to be a respectful, positive presence with the camera and put the personal connection before the image. Just like I do on the city streets.

However, something I know too is that this is posing a new learning curve for me in my process. Just as it took time for me to learn where to push and pull on moments out on the city streets, I am now having to relearn to have that same “feel” in new contexts. These early images are not my strongest, but I am okay with that — I am optimistic that they will be a springboard into more impactful work from this new layer that I am exploring.

Ultimately, what this all means for the American Dream project is a more well-rounded body of work. One where America is lived both out on the stage and behind the curtain. People passing through places, and people belonging to them.

I don't know how to do this yet. But I suspect the next phase of the project lies somewhere in that gap.

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Although I had already announced the start of my project on social media, this night would be the first time I was to stand before a group of peers and share:

“… like Robert Frank as an outsider photographing American in the 1950’s, more than seventy years later, I am aiming to photograph America as an insider, and provide contemporary commentary on what it means to be human in America today. That is the American Dream project.”

A pause to let it land. And then I fielded my first question:

“Do you think you could have chosen something a little more ambitious?”

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Although the sarcasm hit me between the eyes, I smiled and acknowledged the loftiness of the thing. I am personally not afraid to shoot for the stars — as they say, do that and you might just land on the moon.

That is what life itself has taught me: that growth comes when we push ourselves beyond our comfort zone — when we take risks and seek out stretch opportunities.

However, what photography has taught me is that the risks that move the needle aren’t necessarily the clip-worthy or exciting ones. They are not the potentially costly ones that send adrenaline coursing under our skin. Rather, they are all of the little imperceptible ones. They are all of the ones we come across out there on a daily basis when we put ourselves in a position to be let down; to not get the shot; to fail; to leave empty handed.

The cost isn’t life or limb — not the dramatic, but instead the ordinary. And that is the ironic part about photography, isn’t it? That the fear of failure can feel massive, yet the consequences are relatively small.

What we have to gain, however, is substantial.

The Risk of Rejection

This is one of the fears I hear most when talking to people about photography: asking people for street portraits. For most folks, it is not making the image itself that gives them nerves, but rather the simple act of approaching somebody to ask for the photograph.

What happens if they say no?

The fear of rejection is natural, of course. Self-preservation is a basic human instinct. However, the inherent harm in it is actually quite minimal. What happens if they say no? Well, nothing actually. Everybody goes on about their day.

In the very least, the same rationale could be applied to street portraiture that many people use to justify photographing people candidly on the street: I am never going to see this person again anyway, so what is the harm?

The same can be said about street portraiture. But, there is even more rationale to risk this rejection and ask for the photograph — there is simply so much to gain.

And it isn’t just a photo. It is perspective and connection. Each chance we get to interact with someone on the street provides us a chance to learn about the world. And in the process, hopefully we can harness the power of connection to create a meaningful photograph.

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I have made many street portraits, and each one has posed its own risk of rejection. One example in particular stands out as a risk that I almost didn’t take, but am so glad that I did.

There was an older gentleman sitting outside of a mechanic shop in a rural part of town a couple years ago. I passed him several times before working up the courage to speak to him. As I approached, however, I noticed what he was doing — he was cleaning his rifle. Although I almost backed out again, I decided to chat with him anyway. What resulted was an opportunity to not only make an impactful image, but to do it while testing my Spanish-speaking skills (my second language) for the first time on the streets.

The thing about street portraits is that all it takes is one to get us rolling. Once we’ve broken the seal, each and everyone one after becomes easier. And, as time goes on, all of the cognitive load that was once spent on the social part of the process is freed up to focus on the image-making portion.

If you think about it, the fear isn’t inherently in rejection at all, but in the anticipation. Because, once we take the leap, whether the answer is yes or no, the fear disappears with the uncertainty. And once we recognize that the hardest part isn’t the photograph, but the walk over, we free ourselves to make the most of our time with others.

The Risk of Getting Nothing

There aren’t just social risks on the street. There are creative ones too, and these are some of the scariest to face. For me, often one of my greatest fears is getting nothing.

This is the risk that I personally feel most often when I go out to make photographs. In fact, I actually feel pressure when I am headed to photowalk. Between work and life, my time is limited, and thus each outing with the camera is precious. I can’t help but put pressure on myself to make the most of those times — to produce something that will push the work forward.

However, this pressure isn’t exactly helpful. And in these moments, I work to remind myself that the process is almost always more important than the results. So long as I am engaged and intentional on the walk, any time with the camera is time well-spent, even if I don’t make any worthwhile images.

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In fact, so much of photography is simply about opportunity and exposure. The more time we spend in an environment — the more exposure we have to people and place — the more opportunities we will likely have to make strong photographs.

Thus, it is hard to expect that any one outing will yield meaningful images. Whether it be a single outing in your town, or abroad on a visit to another location — we must not let the risk of getting nothing stop us from trying.

For example, I recently made a one day stop-over in Chicago to photograph the Windy City. With all of the optimism I could muster, I walked the streets for hours, and — if I am being honest — did not produce anything too impactful. Am I disappointed? Certainly, but will this stop me from making another one-day stop elsewhere on another work trip this year? Not a chance.

What I have realized is this: meaningful photographs are far too rare to expect from every outing. Thus, in some ways, being a photographer is to volunteer for disappointment. The key is understanding that this is simply part of the process of building a body of work.

The Risk of Failure

Sometimes you get nothing. Other times you fail.

Like other artists, what we do with the camera is in so many ways an extension of ourselves. Thus, what we create can leave us vulnerable.

And this is true for anything we care about deeply.

What if I sink all of this — all of me — into the work, and I don’t succeed?

But this fear is a self-imposed one that will always be there. No matter how much we grow or develop, if we decide to invest our heart into something, we are opening it up to be hurt.

The challenge, then, isn’t to overcome this fear with bravery. But rather to accept that it is a tension with which we must learn to coexist.

This may not be relevant to everyone, but many folks have ambitions, aspirations or goals with the camera beyond pure enjoyment. And there does come an inherent risk with being aspirational.

My aspirations in photography are lofty — trust me, I know. American Dream is more ambitious a project than a third or fourth-year photographer like myself should likely be taking on. The moment I announced it publicly, I knew I was opening myself up to the very real possibility that I might not succeed.

But the point isn’t if we attain these goals. It’s that we have the guts to set the bar that high in the first place, and then have the work-ethic to match it. That is what helps us grow, even if we “fail”.

It’s in this recognition that we truly break the chains that hold us back: the fear of failure will never really go away — especially if we are striving for something unique, impactful, or ambitious.

If there is anything that I have learned from photography, it is that not all wins are the dramatic victories we celebrate. Instead, they are often found in the little moments that we face doubt or fear when picking up the camera — the risks that come from striving to build a body of work.

Like the decision to walk over and engage someone on the street; the decision to grab our camera bag and go for that walk, even if we might come home with nothing; or the decision to commit ourselves fully to something that is anything but guaranteed.

These aren’t the hero moments. No, actually they are quite ordinary. And yet, they are the ones that will push us to grow.

Because the growth is not had in eliminating uncertainty, wiping out fear, or forgetting the risks. It is in accepting that they will always exist, but showing up anyway.

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In many ways, it is the place I know best with the camera in my hand. Low traffic downtown, dusty outskirts, scorching hot summers and long days of harsh sunlight. The neighborhoods, the streests, the light, the seasons, the people and their rhythms. These things I know well.

And yet, I do not feel connected to Phoenix. Because familiarity is not the same as connection. I am quite familiar with the place, but I am not emotionally native.

This would likely come to the surprise of very few people in my inner circle. If you know me, you know that I have never been in love with the Southwest United States — at least not Phoenix, Arizona. However, it is still home for me, whether I like it or not.

To make photographs that are meaningful, I have learned something important: it isn’t necessary about changing your relationship with a place, but instead accepting a place for what it is and still deciding to photograph it anyway.

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Learning the Place

Despite not feeling connected to the place, what Phoenix offered me was an opportunity to photograph against resistance — and to do so honestly.

This meant uncovering themes unique to the region and its people. Whether I knew it or not, every block I walked brought me one step closer to understanding the city as I have come know it now.

It isn’t surprising to me today why I began my street photography journey in Phoenix in the most atypical of places: rather than walking downtown or the adjacent urban centers, I instead explored the outskirts of Phoenix, where the rural old town roads fade into open desert.

This starting point helped me get to know Phoenix with the camera much more naturally than I probably would have if I had started in more traditional and street-photography rich locations like Downtown Phoenix — simply because rural outskirts in the southwest are not too dissimilar to the region I grew up, the Southeast United States. There is a common thread between the two that helped me bridge the emotional chasm that existed between me and Phoenix.

This familiarity helped me start to understand the place. While Phoenix had mostly just become an amalgamation of heat and orange in my mind, with each shutter click I began to recognize more.

Transience, hardship, development, density, survival, and of course, heat.

Over time, as I began to trek back from the edges of town and into the city proper, these themes which I uncovered previously were amplified further. What I noticed was that Downtown Phoenix, to me, was a microcosm for the city itself.

People don’t necessarily stay in Downtown Phoenix like they do in other metropolitan areas — they are largely just passing through. Thus, the foot traffic is low for such a large city, even in the temperate months of the year. And in the summer, the rhythm of downtown slows to a crawl.

Many of those out there in the summer are simply trying to survive. And this hardship poses its own ethical questions. To photograph those who are struggling — it is a topic all its own. However, one of the most valuable things Phoenix has done for me is force me to actually have a stance on the topic, and to honor it when I am out photographing. If you do not actively and personally engage with others who are struggling, it is hard to have true direction on the matter.

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Though it can feel stale doing true street photography in this region — with its low density of people, repetitive imagery, and oftentimes overwhelming hardship — Phoenix has taught me almost everything I know about making images of a place and its people, and to do so in a meaningful way.

It has taught me to find symbols underpinning the themes of a place; to photograph people as humans rather than characters; to be a positive presence on the street because you can not simply hide in the crowd; to let the climate influence the work; and to make photographs with people in a way that offers them dignity, agency, and partnership.

These are lessons learned likely only because of my lack of connection to Phoenix, not in spite of it.

Because I did not connect with Phoenix, I was forced to learn how to photograph it.

If Phoenix had felt like home, I am not sure I would have ever pushed so hard to learn how to photograph it honestly.

Earning the Images

I still have a lot to learn about applying this process in other locations that I am either unfamiliar with, or to which I feel emotionally disconnected. Is there a way to take what I have learned from Phoenix about earning the images, and compress that down into shorter stints in the other regions to which I travel?

If I want to produce meaningful work for the American Dream project in other regions of the United States, I need to make images with impact, not simply take snapshots of how places looks.

Though the application is still something I am working through, the lesson is clear:

It’s not about how long you stay or how connected you initially feel, but rather how willing you are to learn from the resistance you face.

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Landing in Chicago, I had high hopes.

After work had brought me to the Midwest — Cleveland, Ohio — I had one day to spare on my trek back home to Phoenix. So, I jumped on an early morning flight to the Windy City, eager to photograph a place I had yet to experience, let alone photograph.

I set off with enthusiasm about all of the potential images I might make, but it did not take long for that romantic feeling to wither away.

I walked for hours, splitting it up as I do in most cities: a morning session, followed by a break of an hour or so while the sun is at its harshest, and finally capping things off with a late afternoon walk into the evening.

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As the miles passed by under my feet, it felt as though nothing meaningful was emerging.

But, this wasn’t the first time I had felt this way in a new city. In fact, it was my fourth or fifth time in just the last year that I had swooped into a new city for a day and felt emotionally disconnected.

What I realized was then was, this disconnection was not because the city was lacking photographs. It was because I was lacking a relationship with it.

Surely you’ve had this thought before — I know I have:

I just need to get to a better city for street photography.

New York, Paris, Tokyo, Los Angeles, London…

While I have not been to all of the “meccas” of the genre, I do believe there is some merrit to the thought that there truly are better and worse places for street photography

But, I don’t necessarily think this is simply because of the city itself. So much of it has to do with our relationship to it.

What certain cities do provide is their own unique culture and pace. They also each have their own climate, as well as their own density, with some cities like Tokyo and New York City trafficking millions of people per day. These characteristics, among others, make each place uniquely its own.

However, feeling comfortable in a city and getting to the point where we truly feel connected enough with the it such that we can pull something out of it with our camera — aside from purely the aesthetic — often takes time. Moreover, it takes familiarity.

Familiarity allows us to recognize patterns — structural, social, emotional. It affords us the ability to photograph for context rather than novelty. And this in turn allows us to photograph in some ways as both an outsider and insider, even if only just — with one foot out, and one foot stepping in.

That is not to say that meaningful work can’t come from the place of a less-familiar outsider. In fact, when I visited Tokyo for the first time last fall, I did not feel the same dissonance that I felt in Chicago.

In large part, however, I believe this was because of the dense exposure that I got to the place: though I spent just four days there (a short trip by international travel standards), each of those days I photographed for hours. The cities I experienced (southern Tokyo and Yokohama) were densely populated, and I more or less stuck to the same areas. Rather than trying to get to know all of Tokyo or Japan as a whole, I instead became quite familiar with a handful of neighborhoods and wards.

My travels to regions throughout the United States, on the other hand, have yielded mixed results.

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One Foot In, One Foot Out

Like many of us, home can be a complicated word. For me, home will always be Central Florida. Born and raised in Volusia County, Florida and the greater southeast United States provide the ultimate familiarity for me.

Over the last few years, I have spent a handful of months back home with family, working remotely and, of course, walking the streets with my camera. I am never more at ease and more emotionally connected to a place than when I have the dirt of the south underneath my feet.

However, after a decade of living in Phoenix, I have no real choice but to call Arizona home too, no? Even in that questioning, though, you can probably sense my relationship with the desert. I will be blunt: I don’t love it here. Nor does it feel like home.

Yet, just because I am not comfortable here does not mean I am not familiar. And thus, I do in fact feel connected to the place — walking the streets and meeting its people with a shared humanity that we can only really earn with time. In fact, this is where I learned to make photographs. The dusty, desolate outskirts of town, the blistering heat and harsh light of summer, the sparsely trafficked downtown streets — it’s what I’ve come to know and understand best with the camera.

In contrast, my travels away from home have tested my resolve to keep making photographs even when it doesn’t feel like… well, anything.

For example, I knew nothing of New England before traveling to Boston last summer, and I would have to admit that I know little more after. A single encounter on the street sums up the experience: after a long day on the street, I shared a passing nod and smile with a woman on the street. After walking in the same direction for a few blocks, I ended up engaging her about a street portrait. She looked at me like I had two heads as she offered up a bewildered “no thanks.”

Clearly I had a lot to learn about how to ingratiate myself with the city — more than any single day could allow.

A trip last year to Dallas proved to be quite the opposite. Within minutes of parking in the neighborhood of Deep Ellum, I met a handful of skaters who engaged me first. And, the entire time I was there, I felt right at home.

But, in some ways this makes sense. Texas is not exactly the southeast nor the southwest, proper. But, being right in between the two, it stands to reason that I might have some inherent familiarity with a place that sits right in the middle of the only two regions I have ever called home.

And then there is Cleveland. Having worked for the Cleveland Guardians for the last decade, I’ve had ample opportunities to experience the city, especially over the last two seasons. These days, I travel there for one week out of every month in-season, and when I am in town, I photograph every day before or after work.

This has allowed me to experience for the first time with the camera what it is like transitioning from an outsider to an insider. It’s funny to think this, but I actually feel way more connected emotionally to the city of Cleveland than I do to my current home in Phoenix. I believe I have made my best work there too thanks to this relationship that has been built over the last ten years.

If I have lived in Phoenix for the last decade but have only traveled to Cleveland over that same time, why would I feel more connected to the latter? Well, I would imagine somebody with a psychology degree might know better than I, but I can think of two reasons:

First, regardless of my travel, I work with a lot of mid-westerners (and even Ohioans). You might think, of course — you work for an Ohio-based company — however, sporting teams tend to employ folks from all over the country and world. Cleveland, though, has a lot of home-grown staff. And thus, my exposure to the place came first through an immersion in the people.

I would also think that I personally play a role in this as well. If I am to be honest with myself, I would have to admit that I have my walls up when it comes to Phoenix. If the city were a person, I’d say that our relationship is not as strong as it should be after ten years together. For Cleveland, however, my heart has been open. Phoenix feels like obligation. Cleveland, like Florida, feels more like belonging.

I suppose this goes to show that building familiarity with a place is more complicated than simply spending time there.

American Dream

A large part of the American Dream project is representation — both of people and of place. Because, honestly, you can’t have one without the other. They are inseparable.

That is why travel is such a large component of the project. If I am to represent America the best extent that I possibly can, then I need to see as much of it as feasibly possible.

But that is not because of the places themselves — the landmarks, attractions, or vibes. It is because of the people.

Because to truly know a place is to know the people who call it home.

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There is a tension in street photography that I am becoming increasingly aware of in my own work these days.

Many photographers strive to disappear in their surroundings, blending into the crowd in order to preserve moments as they natural occur. Others actively work to engage folks on the street, seeking to develop the kind of rapport and trust that drives deep and connected work.

Over time, I have come to appreciate that these two approaches are not just different techniques, but different relationships to the process itself. And yet, they are not mutually exclusive — there is room for both to coexist.

Lately, this is what I have been wrestling with: knowing when to step into the scene myself, and when to simply let the moment reveal itself.

The Invisible Photographer

Much of the work that first drew me into the medium and genre was of the kind where the photographer was seemingly invisible to those around them. Bustling, layered scenes and striking, up-close-and-personal candids — they seemed like an act of magic to me.

But it isn’t magic at all — rather, it is a skill. Inconspicuously moving through the streets, the “invisible photographer” relies on their ability to go undetected through the crowd. They avoid salience, whether it is by stealthy gear, muted gestures, or a combination of both.

Yet, it isn’t just about visibility (or lack thereof). It is also about tactical skills with the camera itself. Zone focusing is a critical component for the invisible photographer.

They can hold the camera discreetly and capture moments without so much as lifting the camera: approaching their subject without drawing attention — and when the moment strikes, click — the camera is quickly position and the photo is made. Noticed by their subject or not, it is typically over before an interaction is even necessary or possible.

For example, while walking through the iconic Shibuya Crossing during a recent trip to Japan, I zone focused and moved calmly through the crowd, waiting for what felt like the right moment to capture the landmark’s energy.

In many cases, people notice that the photographer made the photograph, but because they did not take notice during the lead up, the image retains its most natural qualities.

And, that is the major strength of being an invisible photographer on the streets: the ability to leave life undisturbed. To record a scene and its people just as they are. Because — even if only in the slightest — when people recognize the camera, it will inevitably alter their behavior.

However, there are some drawbacks or aspects to be mindful of with this approach. Because this approach is more detached and observational, the invisible photographer likely must rely on luck, intuition, or impeccable timing (the latter two are skills that can be developed) to capture emotionally connected work.

We also must safeguard ourselves from being extractive — taking from the streets and its people for all that they can give us without neccesarily considering them in the process.

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Candid street photography can be incredibly powerful. It just takes a special kind of skillset that allows the invisible photographer to make strong work from the moments as they happen on the street.

Though not my personal strong suit, there are times that I use these strategies in an effort to preserve a moment worth saving. I zone focus and shoot off the hip, and I do often try to blend into the crowd.

Interestingly enough, I have found political rallies to be a helpful way to work on this skillset. In these venues, the people are more distracted than they are on the street. Thus, becoming invisible is easier.

This image came to be because the students at this youth-led protest were too invested in their cause to notice me with my camera. In that way, I became invisible.

The Invisible Camera

On the other hand, there are photographers who do very little to hide their presence on the streets. Instead of blending into the environment themselves, they allow themselves to be a part of the it.

Rather than being observational, the photographer with the invisible camera strives to be relational.

In the case of portraiture or “less candid” photographs, there is a trust that can be built when the photographer opts into participating in the scene.

This distinction, though nuanced, can be a powerful one.

It is a documentary-esque approach brought to the street, where the partnership between photographer and subject or surroundings allows for the camera to become invisible as the photographer progresses further into the scene or story.

Of course, engaging with people and place does not come without drawbacks. When the photographer is visible, the scene is often irreparably altered due to thir presence. Candids become challenging, and thus the cost becomes spontaneity.

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For me, it is the personal connection that fills me up the most. I enjoy the challenge of having to be a chameleon on the streets in order to establish trust with people, even in the briefest of collisions.

I am cognizant, though, of how easy it is to become a one-trick photographer, so to speak — simply doing what we prefer or feel most comfortable doing. I don’t want to only be a street portrait photographer — there is more that can also be revealed with the camera through non-scripted photographs.

However, some of the strongest reactions that I get from my work involve the images that were made in partnership with the person across from the camera. For example, this portrait of Cariek was made one morning on the edges of town. After chatting for a few minutes, he agreed to do a portrait next to a wall graffitied with the word Love.

And when he asked me, “What should I do?”, I responded, “Just be yourself.”

What emerged in the portrait afterward felt deeply true to him.

At this stage, I don’t personally believe either approach is inherently better or more truthful.

Some moments are best left untouched. Others need more help to bring them to the light.

For me, personally, I am drawn more to personal connection — to getting embedded within the scene and participating in the moment such that the camera fades away because the interaction becomes more important than the image alone.

Yet, I hope to keep building out my ability to disappear within a scene when the moment arises.

Because sometimes the best thing we can do is make a moment together with someone else.

While other times it is to let a moment happen all on its own.

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So what even is street photography?

Well, I am not here to define it universally, but instead share the role that it serves in my own process. And over time, that role has evolved substantially.

Somewhere along the way, street photography stopped being the end goal.

Rather than the streets being the final destination, they have instead become the place where I practice the craft, experiment with composition, learn to set a scene and approach people, and develop the kind of toolset that can shape how I approach my documentary work.

The streets have become my documentary sandbox.

Where I go to experiment, play, learn, and ultimately build.

The Streets as Access

Initially my intention when I picked up a camera was to be a street photographer, and thus, several days out of every week, I would commute to the nearest downtown and walk the streets making photographs.

Eventually, though, a shift came: as I learned more about myself with the camera and the medium as a whole, I realized that the work I wanted to be doing would largely be considered “documentary” photography. However, in my eyes, this type of work revolved around discrete people, places, and stories, not random occurrences like we find on the street.

At this stage, my photowalks began to feel rudderless. I tied all of my ambitions to the hope that I might find a story somewhere out there on the streets. And, that is actually how my long-term project, American Dream, came to be. I began finding and compiling stories.

However, I still yearned to make photographs that were about something more specific, tangible, or structured. Unfortunately, I am a sport scientist by trade, and thus don’t have many outlets for being assigned or finding documentary work.

Enter the Boyhood project. Over the last four months, I have been documenting a young boxer and his father as the boy trains to become a world champion — largely doing so out of a garage. I lucked into the opportunity of meeting this pair and the crew they train with, and suddenly I had access for the first time.

Though I continued to photograph the cities, this concentrated period of time photographing young boxers in a garage gym taught me the underlying value of access. Sure, you need to be able to get “in the room” with the story, so to speak. But really, what access eventually grants us is the time to build relationships. To embed ourselves within the story.

And this realization has ultimately led to a gradual change in mindset for me. Rather than waiting for or seeking access, I instead reverse engineer it.

If access in documentary work can afford us time to build relationships, I would instead build relationships to gain access. In the context of street photography, this means placing the human before the image. Rather than racing to make the photograph, instead laying the groundwork necessary for stronger, more connected images. By building relationships on the street — though brief as our interactions might be — we can access a deeper part of the individual in front of us.

And, the beauty of the street is this: it is available to us all. Whether you live in the city or on the rural backroads, in the desert or on the coast, we can walk the places around us with our camera and make our own “access”.

For me, documentary work on people and their stories — that is what I strive to be doing, and thus the streets present frictionless access for documenting people and their stories.

The Streets as Practice

Street photography has also proven to be fertile ground for my development within the actual craft of making photographs, regardless of my aspirations. And to be honest, I don’t see this changing any time soon, and it is my recent documentary work that has shown me why.

My current Boyhood project has created the kind of contrast that allows me to see one of the inherent values of street photography more clearly — its unpredictability.

In photographing the young boxers, I have attended training sessions at their garage gym 2-3 days per week, at roughly the same time each day. This consistency has given me the space to learn how to adapt to the specific environment. For example, I bought my first strobe light to combat the lack of light as the sessions push into the evenings and the sun sets behind the garage. I have also learned the shutter speeds and apertures I want to use in rhythm with the boxers’ movements. This predictability deepens specific skillsets.

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Street photography, however, provides complementary value in two ways, all of which through its unpredictability. First, it broadens skills: walk a city enough and you will know almost nothing is constant. And thus, we are forced to think more quickly and adapt our approach to whatever we come across.

Additionally, street photography can help us groove or cement skills due to this inherent unpredictability, especially when we add our own constraints. For example, we could grab our camera and walk the streets, ready and open to photograph anyone or anything. It would be like having a tool-belt with many tools, and then using each specific tool to fit a particular problem.

On the other hand, we could embark on the streets with our camera in hand and a developmental mission in mind. For instance, today I am only going to photograph gestures, essentially limiting us to just one tool on our tool-belt, setting us off to look for only the specific instances where we can use it.

Of course, you could constrain yourself to gestures in the documentary work — or the more predictable environment/situation — however, this poses less of a technical challenge. The street, instead, pushes us to be more intentional, adaptable, and resilient, and thus helps cement and groove a skill such that we can use it in many contexts. This is exactly how we train out athletes when it comes to skill acquisition.

The overall shift for me comes from the simple fact that I know the streets will always be there, no matter what other photographic work I am doing. And thus, there is always a place for me to work on the craft and challenge myself.

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The Streets as Social Training

Now, it is important to note that street photography for me is not just some utilitarian construct that I use to run photographic “drills”. It is still a space that I get enormous personal fulfillment. And that largely stems from the human connection.

The day before writing this piece, I went out onto the streets of Downtown Phoenix for a one-hour photowalk. In that hour, I made nine different individual street portraits, and several group portraits. Let me be clear: I had no intention of making that many portraits. This day was an anomaly, as I ran into three separate groups of three people on a busy Saturday evening, nearly all of which actually engaging me first when they saw my camera.

Ultimately, however, this was an incredibly rewarding session — not only because I enjoy connecting with people, but because it posed a tremendous social and cognitive challenge for me to try to engage each person in a deep enough manner to make a connection that would lead to something true and meaningful in the image.

If in documentary work you often photograph similar people within a project, then the streets provide much less consistency by comparison. In yesterday’s session alone, I photographed…

• Three high-school aged skateboarders

• Three college-aged guys out on the town

• A group of two guys and one gal in their 30s at a cigar bar

These groups (and individuals) each required their own shade of interpersonal skills in order to partner with them in the image-making process.

Much like the case of technical skill development, the streets offer the opportunity for us to work on our interpersonal skills in a highly variable setting, thus challenging us to adapt and grow.

Certainly, not every photographer is looking for that human connection in their work. However, it has become clear to me that human connection is, in fact, a central pillar of my work. Thus, the streets have been and will continue to be a place I visit weekly to make and further enhance these connections.

The streets are no longer simply the place I go to make photographs — although I do make them there regularly.

Rather, the streets have become my sandbox for documentary work: they are where I go to work on the instincts that documentary work demands: adapting to unpredictability, establishing trust, learning to communicate with people, recognizing the moment and finding meaning in it.

In this way, street photography is no longer the destination it once was when I first picked up the camera.

It has become my foundation.

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It isn’t necessarily because the image is poor or that our visual instincts are lacking. Rather, it is because lived moments carry the emotional weight of our experience.

This can be hard to separate ourselves from, and thus getting objective feedback from others who have not shared these experiences with us (nor are attached to our images) is a crucial influencer of our growth photographically.

Photo critiques and reviews are an invaluable tool for photographers: from image selection, to printing, sequencing and presenting, the entire process forces us to confront our own work. That process alone can drive growth.

However, the feedback we get from impartial peers and experts allows us to detach from the experiences we had making the image, and more accurately calibrate toward what makes for a strong photograph.

Recently, I have done both an expert portfolio review and a peer photo critique that have helped me separate from my experiences and calibrate my own work.

“A Hot Chocolate Image”

I originally brought this photograph (made in Huntington Beach, CA) to an expert portfolio review, along with around 10 other images. The review was a check in on my project, American Dream: A Portrait of America.

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That day in California, I had just one hour to photograph, and what I was attempting to do was capture an essence of Southern California. And, when this girl came strutting by, surfboard tucked under arm, blond hair flowing in the sea breeze, I thought, now this is certainly one version of the American Dream… I backed up quickly in the soft sand, measured up the shot and released the shutter.

Peering at the LCD screen, I thought I had nailed Southern California with my very last image of the trip. And, upon loading it into LightRoom, I fell even more in love: the natural tones of the water; the moodiness of the storms in the distance juxtaposed with the tranquility of the girl; the boardwalk as a leading line out into the horizon…

And yet, the image fell flat with the reviewer. Peering at the print for a moment or two, he asked me what I saw in the moment, what the image conveyed to me, and I explained.

A polite, yet disheartening “Hmm” was what I got in response.

The reviewer went on to describe the photograph in a way that has truly stuck with me: a hot chocolate image, he called it. The kind of photograph that makes you feel good — because it is nice, and it is pretty. But what it is not: deep, nor strong.

In this case, the image is missing something. It is aesthetically pleasing, and it does fit the theme of the project. But there is no tension or friction; there is no connection nor emotional weight; there is no story being told, nor questions being asked.

And, when I stacked the image alongside the rest of my work, I had to agree.

Where my other photographs focused on the human in front of the camera, this one — once the personal and experiential ties were removed — struck me more as a fine art landscape image. Something that I would be happy to put up on my own wall, but not select as a part of a meaningful project.

“An anonymous photograph”

Nothing gets you more attached to a photograph quite like an emotional or stressful experience. Protest photography has started to prove this point to me, as it feels like nearly every image that I make at a political rally seems to compel me to keep it around.

During a recent No Kings rally in Downtown Phoenix, AZ, I saw this gentleman in character and decided to do something a bit different than my usual. Popping off the wide 35mm lens that stays glued to my Leica, I grabbed a 75mm lens from my bag and mounted it to the camera.

Stepping back and crouching down into the crowd, I worked to gain focus while putting a foregrounding object with stars and stripes just to the left of our subject.

My attachment to this photograph came not just from being in the middle of a jostling crowd, but also from the experience of intentionally making photographic decisions in real-time. Knowing the lengths I went through to make this composition work in a chaotic environment (and seeing it actually come out the way I envisioned it) brought me a whole lot of satisfaction.

What it didn’t do, however, was make a photograph that matched the rest of the work I brought for a recent peer review:

“If I was going to leave out one image, it would be that one. The guy in the sunglasses. It’s just… anonymous.” Followed by a room full of agreement.

With further elaboration later on, I understood the sentiment: the image was fine.

But, fine is not strong.

And, when surrounded by other photographs that either demonstrate connection, provoke inquiry, begin to tell a story, or truly grasp a viewer’s attention through complexity or relationships, it is easy to point out what this image lacks.

And that was the realization: effort and intentionality do not automatically produce depth. They may bring us closer to the moment, but they don’t necessarily bring the viewer any closer.

While this image may not resonate with everyone, it still matters. It taught me something and was an invaluable rep that put artistic vision and execution under time pressure.

“Just somebody walking by a flag”

A second image from the set of ten that I brought to the recent peer review, this photograph was taken recently in Chicago, IL.

Much like my other trips, I rarely get more than a few hours to photograph, so I was quite excited to make an image in a new city that had the potential to contribute to a broader body of work — in this case, American Dream. And, I happened to wait a decent amount of time for the '“right” person to walk in front of this storefront.

My hope was to get somebody with a bit of that 1950s feel — just enough to make you call back to a different era, but not enough for you to mistake when the photograph was made. And, I thought I had gotten that with the image. And, given its obvious symbolic nature, I became attached to the idea of it being a strong image.

However, the peer critque revealed that it was one of the weaker photos of the lot. The line that punched the hardest: “It is just a person walking in front of flag.”

And, honestly… they were right.

The image lacks tension or emotional weight; there is no real line of inquiry beneath the symbolism itself. And the symbolism is doing far too much of the work — and in a way that feels obvious, not revealing.

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What’s more, I had 2-3 other images with either flags or patriotic symbols in them. Sure, American Dream is a project aiming to provide national commentary — what does it mean to be human in America today? However, not every photograph needs to explictly announce that it is “about America” by punctuating the frame with a flag.

Thus, much like the images prior, this is again not necessarily an example of a poor image, but rather of an image that is, in fact, useful — just not fully realized.

Oftentimes, the hardest images for us to evaluate come from the experiences that we lived in the most. Whether it be the weight or significance of the moment, the lengths to which we went to make the image, or the diligence we demonstrated in crafting the composition.

It is this attachment that can make images so special to us. And yet, it can also cloud our judgment as to which photograph best represents a moment and resonates with others.

This is what makes critique so invaluable. It is not necessarily because others will always be right, nor because we get feedback that is always worth following, but because it helps separate the emotional experience of making an image from the actual strength of the photograph itself.

That detachment of self from image can often be uncomfortable — maybe even painful. But it is a vital part of our growth as artists.

Especially if our intention goes beyond simply collecting individual images that we like, and instead seek to build a body of work that stands on its own.

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I used to think the value of a photo critique was the feedback itself.

But lately, I think the real impact can be found before anyone says a word.

In an era where images are taken, posted, consumed, and forgotten in an instant online, it is the preparation for a photo critique or project review that forces the kind of intentionality that is otherwise easy for us to avoid.

From image selection to printing and curating, to the presentation or stand-up itself, the entirety of the process forces us to take on a discipline that is sometimes forgotten in the process of developing our work.

Increasingly, I have found that the real growth doesn’t just come from the critique itself, but by way of confronting our own work before the feedback even arrives.

I. Selecting Images

The first step in most photo reviews is narrowing down to a select number of images for sharing. Personally, I participate in two different photo/portfolio review processes on a consistent basis.

The more frequent of the two occurs every six weeks as a share-out where each individual gets ten minutes to share their work in front of a group of peers (for the sake of simplicity, we will call this the peer-review going forward). For this, I typically choose 8-12 prints.

The other, less regular process is a portfolio review (we will refer to this as the expert review). Here, I spend an hour every 3-6 months with a gallerist who is attuned to my projects and gearing their feedback explicitly toward helping me develop my work within that context. Here, I am usually sending around 20 images digitally.

In either case, image selection is important. For the peer-review process, I am not necessarily focused on fielding specific feedback on singular images (although I gladly welcome it), but rather looking to gauge overall and general reaction to the entire selection of images. To that end, I am intentional about bringing photographs that represent my current level, focus, or vision with the camera.

For the expert review process, I am happy to take on general thoughts on the work, but I am very keen to hear specific feedback. This is an avenue for me to tighten the screws of my work — to be hyper-critical of the details, and to be pushed to make stronger images. With that in mind, I am intentional about selecting images that I either feel very strongly about (e.g. I love this image, but want to make sure I am not too close to it and am misjudging its strength), or that I am uncertain about (to help me gain clarity).

Ultimately, some of the greatest value comes from sifting through hundreds or thousands of images taken between reviews and deliberately deciding which ones are representative of our vision and mission with the camera, and those that we are willing to put out there into the world for direct, in-person feedback.

II. Printing Changes the Work

The expert review process in which I participate is virtual. However the peer-review critique is in-person, and thus requires that the images are printed.

What I have learned first-hand is that printing is a must for me. For starters, if my goals revolve around getting my work onto walls and pages, then I need to know that the photographs I make can hold up when they are realized in the real world.

Moreover, printing to me feels like the competition or match in sport. You can train all you want, but until you get out onto the field, pitch, or court against an opponent and the elements, you don’t actually know how well your training is working. The competition is the ultimate test.

Printing is reminiscent of this concept for me. An image can look great on the screen, but not until it is printed in ink and sitting before you in the light (rather than backlit on a screen), it is hard to truly know its caliber. Printing removes the layer of forgiveness that a phone or computer screen offers.

I had no idea what I was doing when I first began printing at home. Paper, ink, ICC profiles, screen calibration, adjustment layers, media types…

I just figured, what could be so hard about this? and simply hit print. After many pure black and white photographs entered up on paper in various shades of brown, purple, and cream, I finally decided to learn about printing.

And in that process, I also learned about making photographs with the intention of printing them. And, maybe most important of all, I learned to let go of photographs that don’t hold up on the page.

III. Curating

In prior posts, I have talked about how I have found social media to be a productive avenue for practicing curation. Rather than dumping my favorite photos or a handful of images in any order, I have learned to be more intentional with how I sequence the images online.

Preparing for photo reviews has taken this process to a whole new level. Whereas on social media, viewers typically only see one or two images at a time, when images are printed and presented on a table or wall, they can all be viewed in one large context. An image on the screen is isolated and detached. Photographs on the wall are brought into conversation with one another, begging the question of whether they truly belong together.

This has led me to begin thinking through why gallerists, curators, and bookmakers organize works the way they do. And in turn, I am more interested in drilling down even harder into the sequencing of my own.

When we take the time to deliberately choose how we want to present our work, we can then truly learn from the responses and reactions we get from those who view it. In this way, the curation process doesn’t end when the images are sequenced — it extends all the way through the entirety of the review process.

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IV. The Feedback

Reliable and unbiased feedback is critical for gaining clarity around our work. Not simply about the images themselves, but about all that we are trying to say with them.

Oftentimes, some of the strongest feedback isn’t just what is said, but the overall direction of the discussion. For example, what I have learned about my own work is that the strongest signal is the line of inquiry I get:

Did you talk to that person?

Who are they — they must have a story?

Tell me more about this person.

Meanwhile, the images that are often categorized as weaker tend to be less connected to the human on the other side of the lens. For example, a recent image that I presented in a peer review was called anonymous because there was no connection to the individual. Although it was a candid photograph (not a portrait), I actually appreciate the sentiment quite a bit. Because, even in some of my candids, there is the feeling of connection, even if I have never spoken with the person.

We can’t take all feedback as gospel, nor can we react and adjust our work to every suggestion we get. However, with enough consistent reviewing, we can learn to decipher the signal from the noise, and identify what sentiments are worth moving forward with, and which ones are better left behind.

V. Presenting and Defending the Work

If I am to be honest, this is where the bulk of the value resides for me. I don’t think it is a stretch to say that most emerging or developing photographers (that is, those who don’t need to produce work for a client, nor are at a level where their images are lining many walls or bookpages), share the majority of their work on the internet.

And in these scenarios, there isn’t much friction, is there? For the most part, we simply have to wrestle with the voices in our own head. Rarely, if ever, are we forced to present or defend our own work to others.

Posting an image online merely asks us to hit upload. Standing up alongside our printed work requires intention, vulnerability, and the possibility of the work not landing the way we had hoped.

This serves as an invaluable lesson for us about our own work. A process for pausing and reflecting on why we picked up the camera in the first place; why we traveled to a place or set out on a project; why we pressed the shutter button or chose an image. And even though we are presenting this to others, in a way it is its own form of self-interrogation.

In fact, during my most recent peer review, I was asked why I chose 2028 as my projected end-date for my American Dream work. Though I have discussed the project in reviews prior, this was the first time I had to walk through out loud the purpose of my timeline. The rep was invaluable for me, because (if all goes according to plan) at some stage I will likely need to pitch the project to a curator somewhere and justify that timeline.

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Ultimately, as artists or creators, we are only required to put stock into our own thoughts and desires. However, the wider we hope to circulate our work, the more we should, in fact, consider the guidance, feedback, and direction of others. However, to best do this, we first must truly have a firm grasp of our work, its aim and position, and our own intentions. Photo review processes are an effective tool for pushing us to reflect and consider our work and aims in order to communicate it to others.

Rather than chasing likes or approval, we instead are seeking clarity — not just in the work itself, but in our understanding of how we make it.

And, over time, these critiques and reviews begin to compound: they stop being about individual comments and instead become about pattern recognition, as certain questions and reactions repeat despite changing sets of images.

We work to decide what we wish to share with the world, learn how others respond to it, and then return to making photographs that push us closer to the signal that emerges. And in that process, we get to discover not just which images resonate, but what our work may have been striving to say all along.

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My photography didn’t improve all at once. It changed in phases.

Though each phase eventually stopped working for me, they all did serve their own purpose in moving me from simply taking pictures to building a body of work.

Phase I: “I have no idea what I am doing”

I first picked up a camera in mid-2023 and fell in love. Not because I had a clue what I was doing. Rather, it was because I had a newfound outlet for self-expression.

So, I went out and took pictures — many, many pictures. The camera did not matter, nor the subject, scene, or composition. As awful and directionless as the images were, this time was invaluable. I learned a thousand lessons.

The transition to the next phase came when I first learned about street photography, and eventually turned my camera in the direction of people for the first time.

Phase II. “I have to take my camera everywhere and photograph everything”

Around six months in, something clicked. I knew what I wanted: street photography. And moreover, I wanted to get good at street photography.

My initial growth with the camera came from getting the reps, so I felt compelled to double down on this: I brought my camera everywhere there were people—and photographed anything that moved.

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And yet, I was still a bit self-conscious and nervous about using the camera out in public spaces like the streets. Thus, I selected cameras that were compact, portable, and stealthy — truly pocketable.

As shallow as the photographs mostly were, and as single-image focused as I was at the time, this phase continued to push my development forward at an exponential pace.

That is, until growth started to slow and my mindset began to change. A shift was coming: from taking images to building something more.

Phase III. “I only want to shoot when I can make my style of images”

After what was likely 10,000 images and about 18 months of photography overall, my production began to slow just a bit. Not because I desired to take less photographs, but because I began to truly understand my “style” of photography, and how I ultimately wanted to chase it.

What I had learned is that I wanted to be a street photographer who exclusively shot in black and white. And, I wanted my images to convey something deeper. Whether that be through abstraction or realism. I wanted to produce work that gave others sense of myself while also showing them the world.

The images were no longer singular, but instead began to contribute toward something larger. In these early days, that something that they contributed to was not necessarily my body of work, but my style of work.

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Still, this was the first time I began to slow down as a photographer; to be observant; to not photograph everything and anything just because I could.

However, it was not until the phase I am in now that I truly began to think in terms of building tangible and cohesive bodies of work.

Phase IV. “I am building something”

The greatest, most impactful growth I experienced in my photographic journey was when I initially embarked on my first photographic project.

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About a year ago, I began my first real project: American Dream: A Portrait of America. The project has become a central pillar to my work on the streets. Though not every image I make will contribute to the project, the goal any time I am out on the streets is to look for opportunities to push the project forward. Aimless street walks have now become intentional outings.

And, American Dream has led me to embark on another project — the “Boyhood” project (name still TBD), which focuses on a young boxer and his father.

Ultimately, this stage is characterized by a very clear internal directive: from where I travel to what camera I use, the ultimate goal is to build something meaningful and significant. And this has led me to take less images, instead focusing on making photographs of meaningful moments or impactful people, through intentionality, observation, and connection.

Overall, none of these four phases were mistakes. In fact, each one was necessary.

The shift that mattered most wasn’t technical. It was mental.

I stopped taking photographs—and started building something with them.

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