I recently spent a week among a group of children’s photographers in beautiful Vail, Colorado.  The Westin Resort & Spa at Beaver Creek was our home for four days as NAPCP members gathered from all over the United States, Canada, and even England.

Part way through the trip, a large number of families gathered in the resort lobby for a shooting clinic.  Photographers were split up into groups, with each group being assigned to different families.  I had the pleasure of facilitating my group, and we ventured outside together.  As a facilitator, my job was to help guide in posing, make sure any questions were answered, and help provide a little bit of organization to the chaos.

As we began shooting, I discovered something interesting.  I turned on my auto-pilot of tricks that I use with children, but I wasn’t pleased with the results I was getting. The girls we were shooting were cooperating wonderfully, and doing everything I asked of them.  The problem was, I wasn’t loving how it was translating onto my camera.  There was a disconnect somewhere.

In the beginning of our time together, I was getting images like these:

Technically good photographs.  Everyone was smiling and engaging with me.  But something was missing, and I couldn’t put  my finger on it.  I tried a handful of things, redirecting, and moving from the hotel grounds to a field next door.  With the top right photograph, I decided I needed to stop and think.  What was the end result that was tucked away somewhere in my brain, nagging me until I nailed it?  Maybe the girls should sit down:

After I shot the photograph to the left, I found it was getting closer… but still felt… contrived.  It was time to break up the girls and get down to the basics.  I took the youngest one and, after thinking for a few minutes about how to direct her to get the shot I wanted, I finally said “go to your happy place.”  I asked her to think really hard about her very favorite things, and then tell me about them.  As she thought, I photographed (above right).  Even closer, but still not there.  The grass around her was conflicting with her face, so I asked her to stand up.  And then, somewhere in those next few moments, the vision tucked away deep in my subconscious merged with reality.  And as my model thought about her happy place, I discovered mine:

I now had the foundation.  And it was time to build upon it with the other girls:

And then grab mom, who looked absolutely radiant as she awaited the arrival of daughter #4:

It wasn’t until the next day, during an amazing talk by Leah Zawadzki and Deb Schwedhelm that I was able to process what exactly happened that evening.  There was a 15 minute chunk of time built into their presentation that forced us to address any one of ten questions.  And when I say forced, I mean it was 15 minutes of quiet journaling.  Being the cynical person I am, I thought about skipping the exercise.  But then one question grabbed my attention:

What does your voice sound like?  What do you want it to say?  Since I had nothing else to do, I began writing:

What does my voice sound like?  A person’s physical voice is always different to others than what we hear reverberating in our own ears.  And in the same way, people view my work in ways I don’t necessarily see.  To them, it’s different.  To me, it’s how I view the world.  How do I want my voice to sound?

I want it to be authentic.

Deep.

Emotional.

When I pick up my camera, I can see the you that you want people to see.  But I want to peel past the artificial and get to the truth.

The happy place.

What is my happy place?  Three months ago my answer would have been much different.  Three months ago, it would have been tropical shores, toes in the sand, and an amazing sunset before my eyes.  Today… it’s simply moments.”

Shooting that evening in the Colorado field, I felt my perspective shift.  I was less after giggles and more after calmness.  Less about vibrant color and more about black and white.

Slowing down.

Being deliberate.

Enjoying the moment.

Because we don’t know how many moments we have.

I hadn’t photographed much in the last three months because of an influx of design projects and traveling.  It was eye-opening to see how much one scenario with my best friend facing a serious life-threatening disease so deeply impacted my approach to photography on a level I would have never recognized if I didn’t take that small amount of time to just write.  As an artist, my style is always evolving.  Forever growing.  I just need to be brave enough to push through the mediocre, trust my instincts, venture outside of my comfortable bubble, and wrestle it out until the fireworks go off.

And then do it all over again.  Happy Monday, friends.