This post isn't sharing my work. In fact, the only photo you'll see is a phone photo of a print from the 1990s. This post is a plea.
Print your pictures.
My phone rang early on Valentine's Day morning. It was my dad. I live in Northern Virginia and my dad lives in California, meaning it was not a normal time for him to be awake, let alone calling. My heart skipped a beat and I answered the phone to learn that my 93 year old grandfather had passed away.
A few hours later when my house was quiet, I reached into my closet for the four disorganized boxes of photos I store there.
I have photos framed in my home, a selection of albums and photo books, and a Sticky9 collection that covers my entire fridge.
But I also have random prints that aren't frame or album worthy (or that never made it into a frame or album) that sit in shoeboxes. It's kind of embarrassing to admit how disorganized those boxes are, but at least I know that my old photos are somewhere in there when I go searching.
I dug through the boxes to find pictures of my Pop. Most of the photos are still at my dad's I imagine, but I found a mini-treasure trove from my childhood up to my college graduation.
I love working as a photographer. It is convenient for me if you buy a digital package. But please, don't let the pictures live on your phone or laptop. Print them. Make a book. Invest in a few nice prints or a canvas. That's why my referral gift is prints. I need to know you have photographs in hard copy.
Schedule a session with grandpa or grandma or great grandpa. Then print the photos.
And while it was a sad event that prompted this particular post, I can think of other times I've searched through boxes for prints in celebration - anniversaries, birthdays, engagements and weddings. When friends have moved or left jobs, I've dug through my photo boxes to create memory books and slideshows.
I take pictures because I want you hold them, display them, pass them out to friends. I love the ease of digital sharing, as my Facebook and Instagram attest. But when I held an old Polaroid of my grandparents, I felt a peace that looking at a computer screen doesn't bring.
Print your pictures.
My phone rang early on Valentine's Day morning. It was my dad. I live in Northern Virginia and my dad lives in California, meaning it was not a normal time for him to be awake, let alone calling. My heart skipped a beat and I answered the phone to learn that my 93 year old grandfather had passed away.
A few hours later when my house was quiet, I reached into my closet for the four disorganized boxes of photos I store there.
I have photos framed in my home, a selection of albums and photo books, and a Sticky9 collection that covers my entire fridge.
But I also have random prints that aren't frame or album worthy (or that never made it into a frame or album) that sit in shoeboxes. It's kind of embarrassing to admit how disorganized those boxes are, but at least I know that my old photos are somewhere in there when I go searching.
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| Me and Pops, my high school graduation, 1998. |
I dug through the boxes to find pictures of my Pop. Most of the photos are still at my dad's I imagine, but I found a mini-treasure trove from my childhood up to my college graduation.
I love working as a photographer. It is convenient for me if you buy a digital package. But please, don't let the pictures live on your phone or laptop. Print them. Make a book. Invest in a few nice prints or a canvas. That's why my referral gift is prints. I need to know you have photographs in hard copy.
Schedule a session with grandpa or grandma or great grandpa. Then print the photos.
And while it was a sad event that prompted this particular post, I can think of other times I've searched through boxes for prints in celebration - anniversaries, birthdays, engagements and weddings. When friends have moved or left jobs, I've dug through my photo boxes to create memory books and slideshows.
I take pictures because I want you hold them, display them, pass them out to friends. I love the ease of digital sharing, as my Facebook and Instagram attest. But when I held an old Polaroid of my grandparents, I felt a peace that looking at a computer screen doesn't bring.
