Back story.

I shot a wedding a couple years ago, sent the pictures to the parents then waited and waited and waited.  Nothing.  No phone calls, no emails, no nothing.   I was heart broken.  These were friends of mine.  It was their youngest’s wedding and I had been sort of a second shooter (there were three other photographers there).  I thought my shots were really good. 

I couldn’t stand it, I called them.  The father, Skip, got on the phone and said:  Yes they’d gotten the pictures.  Yes they were going to call me.  But, he said, every time he picked up one of the pictures and started to call, Skip started crying.

This is the picture.  He loves it.  I love it.  Everybody loves it.

 

Why?  Because to him, and probably many of the rest of us, that’s not a picture of a bride.  It’s not a soon-to-be Mrs. Somebody or a twenty-something having a glass of champagne.

That’s his little girl . . . barefoot, just the way he will always remember her.

That’s the day I realized that I was going to be a wedding photographer.  It’s about the story that pictures can capture.