See It Through Your Heart

When I know it's good my body responds: interrupted breath, faint hum in ears. For a moment I am not present. The length of a good shutter speed. But more like an ocean plunge, yet, not as jarring. Submerged for the briefest moment. The sensation is subtle yet, in that moment, an instant of clarity. I don’t even bother to review the image to see if it was properly exposed, composed, and all those other technical rules I can’t ever keep in my brain. They no longer exist because I know I got it. The body keeps the score and my heart knows it has won.

Harvey refers to these signals as “bio feedback". Through the lens of photography, I call it seeing through my heart. And the more I get out of my head and trust that the heart guides the eye, the more alive my work becomes.

This is what advances my craft, my style as a photographer. And, in my opinion, what makes good photography. When I’m a terrible photographer I am thinking. The brain has paralyzed the heart. I feel nothing and I know the image will be flat, dead. An alive image has its own heartbeat and that pulse and rhythm is passed on to the viewer. It will stay in the body and imprint the soul because it was felt.

“IT’S YOUR STORY. YOU GET TO TELL IT. “ writer Joyce Maynard states with conviction. We are a captive audience, a room of 25 women writers brought together for a 4-day writers retreat, eager to tell our truths in own words. “…Don’t use dead language.” she says emphatically, “show the reader what it’s like to be you. Bring them in to feel the moment.” The energy in the room rises as this resonates with our group. Meanwhile, outside there is a fast-moving storm picking up speed: driving rain pelts the windows, gusty winds thrash tree branches and flicker the lights, plunging us all into momentary darkness. Really, who wouldn’t rather be seen than simply heard? Perhaps less terrifying, we crave to be understood. I don’t bother taking notes. I am already ripe for the craft of showing not telling. My photographs are stories:

Sierra takes about 15-20 beats before she leaps into the green swirled black and blue water below. She emerges in an intimate tangle of pink lacy fabric. Exhilarated. My breath catches as if I had leapt in with her. I have come up for air, and I knew we nailed it. I don’t even remember taking the plunge, let alone the photos.

Anna is very pregnant as she awkwardly shifts her weight upright from a bed of ferns. A single leaf is caught in the tangle of her hair and it’s all I can see. I know it will be my favorite from our time together. And I wonder if there is a mother out there who recalls the very first time she pointed out a falling leaf to her baby and called it magic.

Amelia nestles her small frame into a curtain of green foliage while she holds up a fistful of pink dogwoods. The petals pop against the emerald underbrush, catching that magic low light and casting jagged shadows across her cheek. She’ll crouch, cupping the petals in her hands and they radiate like precious gems, spilling out at her feet. The shadows of her hair casting a mirage of vine-like veins along the pale flesh of the insides of her arms. In another photo, Amelia perches on a fallen tree trunk, her head in the clouds. She holds a slight expression of defiance. As I peer up I see that she has her whole life ahead of her. Printed in black and white, the photographs become the fictional story of a young girl coming of age in the era of whalebone corsets and laced up boots. In this imaginary place she has escaped to a secret world she has created. And those clouds, hovering just out of reach overhead, hold her past, present, and future in one frame.

Bella’s face is obscured by a cascade of white dogwoods. It’s the season of their dreamy bloom. I met Bella long ago on a summer day. She is an infant on her mother’s hip. And in her thick-lashed blue eyes I saw how clearly she looked out into the world and I knew she was special. On this particular summer day, nearly twenty years later, I am heavyhearted with the realization I know longer know her and that perhaps, we will forever pass each other as polite acquaintances. The melancholy of this moment passes and I see what a sweet, lovely young woman she has become. In this photo, hands on hips, shoulders back, I see that she’s still taking in the world but through my lens I couldn’t capture the wonder in her eyes or foresee where they would take her. I felt the nostalgia of times long gone catching up, the gentle exhale of letting go, and I knew I had my shot.

This selection of photos and others will be on display as part of a two-women show titled Human {Island} Nature. While my images fit the theme, they also represent the direction I want to take my photography practice - seeing people and things in beautiful light, nestled in shadows, somehow different. But more exhilarating to me is knowing that my style is guided by the sparks I feel around my heart the moment the shutter of the camera registers.

This is the story of my process as a photographer. And I know the next chapter will be a good one.

Thank you to Sierra, Anna, Amelia, Bella, Tallulah, and Judy for showing up and being part of this body of work.

Immense gratitude to Harvey, who never stops encouraging me to share my work with the world. When I do, he honors each photo —matting, framing, and hanging — with precision, care, and the quiet brilliance of an artist in his own right.

Thank you to Danielle for creating a space where artists can share their unique beauty and vision. It's always an honor to be invited back to the Crow’s Nest, and this year I'm especially excited to be sharing the space with Maine film photographer, Cara Dolan!

10% of my photo sales will be donated to the Peaks Island Health Association a 501c3 non-profit organization devoted to facilitating and supporting the delivery of health services on Peaks Island, both for island residents and visitors.  

If my work resonates with you, or if you know someone who might be interested in a unique portrait session, I’d love to connect. Feel free to reach out—I’d be honored to work with you.

Just Breathe, Summer 2025