There’s a lot to say about photography. That quite possibly could’ve been the worst opening line to most, if not all English teachers but there, I said it. There’s a lot to say but no words can satisfy what I want to say. Before you think it, no, this is not me wanting to profess my undying love for it. I love it, I do, but that’s not the point. Let me just give this a go:

   In my sophomore year, my family gifted me a Nikon D3400 camera. I spent that night tinkering with the settings while studying the manual and taking pictures of the furniture and clutter in my room. I was even able to link those photos to my phone. The difference between the low-quality iPhone 5 pictures that I used to take and the new Nikon pictures lit a fire in me. I felt motivated to do more. What more was, I wasn’t sure. Using my room as a subject would do for the time being.

   Less than a week later, the Tubbs Fire hit my town and burned my house to the ground, camera included. After a week or two, I stumbled across the photos of my room on my phone. I believe that was the first time I ever felt a pang in my chest or any sort of hurt after the fires. Every shirt, every book, every single pencil showcased in those photos brought me back in time to the place that I had once called my room. The weight of the situation tripled. Zooming in to see the various items scattered on my desk was an odd feeling. It was like experiencing dozens of small deaths. Dozens of memories that had once been held inside those items were let loose. I suffered not only the loss of my belongings, but memories, as well. I would no longer be able to walk down memory lane. The pathway was blocked and all I could do was peer over to see as far as my sight allowed.

   I coped by revisiting the rubble and ash that used to be my home to take photos with my new camera (thanks to insurance). I felt driven to do so for some reason. I just needed to. I utilized various perspectives to emphasize the grief that captured my neighborhood. For example, one photo looked through the standing arch that used to lead to my front door. Now, however, rather than it opening to my home, only ruins awaited. The rawness of the photos left nothing to be sugar-coated, a trait that I inherited myself. I see myself as a realist rather than an idealist, something that I was able to portray by clearly picturing the aftermath of the fires. There was no light to the situation, and that was okay. I needed to grieve and photography helped me to fully accept the situation and move on.

   Fast-forward to present times and I still value raw photos. Those that I do share usually are more beauty-based, though. They contain more flattering subjects. But those that are raw honestly aren’t as impressive. In fact, they’re quite awful if looked upon without explanation. They’re bland, empty, and uninteresting. However, to me, they tell a story. They highlight struggles that I might be going through. And that’s all that I need them to do. I don’t feel the need to compare them with higher quality photos because their purpose is not to entertain. Their purpose is to preserve. They preserve the past while helping to heal the present. They tell a thousand words.