In all of my work, I am a human first. The camera is not only secondary to my skillset in business, lighting, and social skills, but it's also secondary to the photographs themselves. I give a lot of myself at every assignment I encounter from pre-production all the way through post, as I am culling, curating, and beautifying your stories and memories.

In the show How to Know What's Real   'Can We Keep Time?', the hosts talked about the way we capture moments today, from social media apps like BeReal to the idea of journaling or keeping personal diaries. It really made me reflect on what I do as a camera person, and more importantly, a storyteller.  

From the beginning, this work has tied into the larger human impulse to hold onto time. The podcast mentions “hoarding memories” —taking endless photos or videos or journaling incessantly without ever really going back to them.  As a full-time photographer and as a person living in the digital age, I can say with confidence that you won't relish in every photo you ever make. We've all got hundreds of unremarkable photos that go lost in the cloud, never to be seen until the day comes where we've run out of storage and are forced to delete them, or buy more.

But by deleting the photos, are we also deleting our memories? Our existence? 

The idea of saving every image, whether its from a family vacation or a wedding day, suggests we’re afraid of losing time. That may be true, but if we aren’t truly engaging with those memories, does that time really matter? Furthermore, if we're missing out on moments, simply to engage with the past, are we doing ourselves more harm than good? My job as a photographer is not just to use the camera, but to cull and post-produce your images into a digestible story. 

Ava and Harper Saenz play together during a portrait session at the Eicher Arts Center this fall.

As a photographer and videographer, I try to avoid that hoarding mentality in my work. My job isn’t just to capture everything but to carefully choose the moments that tell a story—something that you’ll actually go back and experience again, but it won't take hours to do so. 

I do this both with client work, like at a freshman welcome event this fall for Princeton University: 

And also in my personal life, like you can see here in this documentary series about my grandparents: 

The prevalence of cameras over the last few decades has undoubtedly changed access to photos and the ability to document. But my mission, as a professional, is to tell your story in a digestible way. 

So, the cost is not just for me, as the professional who will send you an invoice, but to whomever else might take on the photographer role in the family, friend group, or world. There is an assigned detachment, whether it be in their position behind the camera, or their silence in waiting for candid moments, for whoever it is that holds the camera.  In many ways, this is also a privilege, as I’m the one trusted to craft the story, but I encourage myself and others to consider also what it means, and how it may affect your relationships, to put the camera down, especially when you've entrusted a professional to do the job. Whether it’s an event, a magazine story, or a commercial campaign, I’m thinking about how those moments will feel in the future, and how they will convey your story.  

I think we all want to hold onto time in some way, but the key is being selective. You don’t need to document everything—you just need to capture what matters. And when you do, those memories become something much more than just photos or videos—they become a way to keep time.