I’ve always taken pictures.
My earliest memory holding a camera I was five. I remember the feel of the cold chrome and smooth black leather and the hefty weight of it in my hands. It felt like a fragile brick.
I remember my eye looking through the view finder and the satisfactory “click” I heard made when I pushed the trigger.
I remember how the viewfinder would go black for a quick moment when the shutter opened and closed. When I captured that first frame, something captured me.
By high school I knew my way around a roll of film pretty well – but entering the darkroom was a new freedom. I could spend hours dodging and burning. Hanging film. Finding the perfect contrast. Reprinting the same image until I had it just right.
My story at the time was of the only indigenous student in a predominantly white school…
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