Long before I ever picked up a camera, I was filling shoeboxes with photographs, saving ticket stubs from concerts, tucking handwritten notes into drawers, and carrying home little reminders from the places that changed me.
At the time, I thought I was collecting keepsakes.
Looking back, I think I was holding onto moments the only way I knew how.
I've always held onto the little things.
[Full-width portrait of Laura. Quiet. Thoughtful. Looking away from the camera.]
For most of my life, I assumed everyone experienced memory the way I did.
Then I learned about aphantasia.
I discovered that many people can close their eyes and see the faces of the people they love. They can revisit childhood homes, weddings, vacations, and ordinary afternoons through a vivid mind's eye.
I can't.
The hardest part wasn't learning there was a word for the way I experienced memory.
It was realizing that one day, when someone I love is gone, I won't be able to close my eyes and see their face again.
That realization felt like a second loss.
Not because I had lost something overnight, but because I discovered there was a way of remembering that had never been available to me.
For a while, I grieved that.
[A spread of personal artifacts. Shoebox photographs. Handwritten notes. Ticket stubs. A record sleeve. A passport. A small rock from Norway.]
Then I realized my story had never really been about what I couldn't do.
It was about what I'd been doing all along.
Long before I knew there was a word for the way I experienced memory, I was already finding ways to hold onto the people and moments I loved.
Suddenly, all of those little collections made sense.
Those keepsakes had never been about things. They were about the people, places, and moments I loved enough to carry with me.
I didn't keep them because I was afraid of forgetting.
I kept them because love has always deserved somewhere to live.
Looking back now, I can see that photography was never just a career.
It was the natural expression of the way I've always experienced the world.
I've always noticed the moments that are easy to overlook.
The squeeze of a hand.
The glance shared across a crowded room.
The pause before someone walks down the aisle.
The way laughter lingers after the music fades.
Those moments are easy to miss while you're living them.
they're often the moments we miss the most.
I've come to believe the little things are often the biggest things.
Not because they're perfect.
Because they're honest.
They're the moments that become family stories. The ones your children will ask about someday. The photographs you'll pull out on anniversaries, rainy afternoons, and ordinary Tuesdays when you simply want to remember.
That's why I'm drawn less to perfection and more to presence.
I'm not chasing a performance.
I'm paying attention.
Because one day, these photographs won't simply remind you what your wedding looked like.
They'll remind you what it felt like to be there.
[Landscape from Norway, your record collection, Hank and Gus, your desk with books and keepsakes. A glimpse into your everyday life.]
Outside of weddings, I'm usually wandering through bookstores, searching record bins, or checking into old hotels just to admire the stationery and history tucked into every corner.
I still come home with rocks from meaningful places.
I still save handwritten notes.
I still keep ticket stubs.
Some habits never leave us.
And honestly, I'm glad they don't.
They remind me that a beautiful life isn't made up of grand milestones alone.
It's built from ordinary moments that quietly become extraordinary with time.
Maybe that's why you're here.
Because you believe the little things matter too.
The squeeze of a hand.
The glance across a room.
The people you'll someday wish you could see again.
If I can preserve those moments for you, then you'll always have a place to return to them.
[A spread of personal artifacts. Shoebox photographs. Handwritten notes. Ticket stubs. A record sleeve. A passport. A small rock from Norway.]
Have a story to tell? I’d love to hear it. Let’s begin with a simple note.
And everywhere in between
Paris to Provence