I’m sharing this photo because I love it and because it is submitted for the #oneplusphotoawards

I have been awake since 3am because either God or indigestion called to me and around 4am I heard the first bird—there is always a first bird—trill and the rest soon joined to call off the night watch. Blue creeps between the limbs. I’m reading Czeslaw Milosz who bundles eternity into small occurrences which might be how we all do it if we are honest, like the Robin chanting Lauds for us. So long ago, monks prayed Matins during the night and said Lauds in the early dawn. The “office of daybreak”, is a strange and formal title to the slow breath of waking and it used to be that they would read the last three Psalms, one of which says May the praise of God be in their mouths and a double-edged sword in their hands.

I wrote a piece on how to photograph a protest on my Substack. But here’s a piece. Protestors were seething. So were the outnumbered counter-protestors. Rage boiled over into shouts and screams and car horns and mile-long chants like some unholy choir. I was overstimulated. My hands shook. Not out of mortal fear but out of fear for us. The air was tense. I stood upon the arrhythmic heart of my country, oceans of bad blood pulsing beneath my feet, and let myself feel it. But only for a minute. I took a deep breath, choked down my own convictions, and dialed into photographer mode. People should see this.

I think that what I’m trying to say is there’s a weariness that coats our best intentions—a layer of mistrust that began with school shootings and planes collapsing buildings. And that as we start to wrinkle around the eyes, the familiarity with tragedy—the impermanence of things like life—either becomes an excuse for bitterness or a reason for hope. I do not hold bitterness against anyone. I understand. If life has torn at you and left scars along your ribcage, you can be bitter and scared. Hell, I’ll yell at the sky with you and rant at the stars. But there’s a question at the end of every broken body and it has to do with hope, and whether or not we will allow it’s bruised and jaded truth live beside the haunted way we are.

I don’t really shoot weddings anymore. I made too many grunting noises when standing up from awkward angles and I spent most of my time talking to the grandparents at the reception that I knew I was destined for a less-bendy, more laid back portfolio. Still, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t days when the light hits just right for a few elopement portraits and makes me almost miss the big days.

Funky hat shoot with @finallydrsoby — congrats to all the recent grads!

I’ve become an infrequent poster on IG, usually only coming here to share some writing or an image I particularly enjoy. I had the pleasure yesterday of doing a senior/grad photoshoot with the superb human and cellist @sm.marika and these are just a few of my favorites.

I’ve been covering commencement ceremonies for a decade now, and anytime I face the challenge of routine I have one piece of advice: look for a new angle. @universityphotographers #upaa #photography #uconn #uconnbusiness #connecticut #nikon

I’m an outtakes guy. I love the unconventional angle. The unexpected frame. An unanticipated shot that tells a whole story in a new way. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for symmetry and perfect smiles and technical lighting, but that’s not real life. Real life is a leg and shoe barely in frame, with the shadow of a first-place runner, chest out, sprinting across the finish line, while the timer looks on. Tons of leading lines. Contrasting color. Composition. This image said more to me than the entire rest of the shoot. #photography #sportsphotography #nikon

“Azzi Fudd’s shooting a three!” The girls behind me are louder than the rest of the bleachers when Fudd knocks one in. I’m not a good sports fan because I feel for our opponents who lose by 69 points but a win is a win. Better than the men’s game the day before when seven of our players had over three fouls and our top scorers took the day off. But the girls behind me are screaming whenever Fudd sinks a shot and the stadium is filled with girls and young women and old women rocking the dynastic white, blue, and red #5 Bueckers jersey. And I love that this stadium is filled with girls who have a 6’0” superhero to tilt their chin up to. That Gampel Pavilion is—for at least a few months every year—a sanctuary. A place for our kids to believe in women whose most enduring quality is the very fact of them being real. Because that’s what’s missing isn’t it— the almost-touchable court-side reality of hope? While world leaders fumble our future in musty courtrooms and hallowed offices, our actual future is dribbling the ball down court where she will stun the way she so often does: with a deep three, or a pivot and spin off the backboard—giving an entire stadium something real to believe in. And the future is also sitting—now standing—now screaming—in the bleachers, jerseys hanging to their knees, arms up, “Azzi Fudd for three!” Some of us are tired of witnessing the unprecedented, but not when it is this kind of defiant promise. This we will bear witness to and talk about for years to come, until one of these girls is an old woman wearing a tattered and old #5 jersey, cheering from the bleachers for her future way down there, the echo of a ball bouncing under the dome of Gampel forever. @uconnwbb @azzi35 @paigebueckers @ncaa