In the weeks following my Dad’s death, I find myself contemplating special moments in time. One in particular keeps coming to the front of my thoughts. It was during a trip to Italy. We were walking along and talking. He asked me “why do I take pictures? What’s so important about it?” I think he always thought it was just a passing phase and one day I would put the camera down and get a “real” job. My answer to the question was that “I just can’t answer that. I don’t know exactly why I photograph, it’s just something I do”. In fact,it’s something I’ve always done since I picked up the camera at 13. I never felt like photography was or is a conscience decision. I don’t think about it until I pick up a camera and then something takes over. I see differently, I experience things differently and I act differently. The more I do it the more I want to do it more. I guess it’s my addiction.
The strange thing of it all was that although he sent me to RIT to study Medical Photography and knew that I lived in New York to gain more experience after that and then moved on to open my own photography business, he still didn’t get it. It wasn’t until that trip. As usual I would go off on my own to photograph. I was photographing in the Forum of Rome. As chance has it, he was standing at an overpass looking at the forum when he saw me below. Apparently he watched me while I photographed. Later that night over dinner and wine he acknowledged “now I get it”. He never asked me again “When are you going to get a “real” job?”.