In early 2018, I was getting off the plane after an 18-hour flight steve hartman called. He had an idea: photographing the still-intact bedrooms of children killed in school shootings.
It's a headache. And six years later, I still don't have an “elevator pitch” for this project – but then again, I don't talk about this project often. This is the hardest thing I've ever worked on.
When my friend of nearly 25 years, Steve, asked me if I would like to join, I said yes without hesitation – even though I didn't think any of our families would agree. There's no way I would refuse to partner with them on this.
Emotionally, I wasn't sure how I would get through this. Within a few months I was moving to Parkland, Florida. alone. I'm not sure I realized I would be on my own.
But I was here. An on-location commercial photographer who focuses on people and pets to create compelling, honest, textual, and connective moments for big brands, according to my LinkedIn professional profile, on a project where there is no one to take the photos Is – the reason for the most cruel.
How do you draw a picture of a child who isn't there?
in each of these children's room – the most sacred place for these families – there was a feeling that the child had just gone there, and was coming back immediately. It seemed as if he had just left his room while going to school in the morning and returning in the afternoon.
I wanted to capture that essence.
Most children's bedrooms are their own special places, and this one was no different. I looked everywhere, without touching anything. I took pictures inside trash cans, under beds, behind desks. Their personality was reflected in small details – a hair tie on a doorknob, a toothpaste tube that was left open, a torn ticket to a school event – that helped me uncover glimpses of who they were. .
But apart from that creative challenge, there was also an emotional challenge. Over the course of more than six years, we visited many families across the country. The parents I spoke to seemed grateful for my being there. But every time I got a call or message from Steve about a new family, my heart would sink.
It meant another family had lost a child.
I find it incomprehensible that killing children in schools is even an issue. it makes no sense. It's impossible to process. The night before each family visit, I couldn't sleep. And I knew that I would not go into this project. This is not a self-fulfilling prophecy. These are nerves. And sympathy. And sorrow. And fear.
In my notes from the beginning of the project, in 2018, writing in seat 6H on the return flight from Nairobi, I reflected on the emotional work ahead.
“This is going to be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, emotionally, and not just work related. As I read my research documents, I get visibly emotional,” I wrote. , expressing his gratitude for preventing this from happening due to the dark cabin causing other passengers to avoid looking at me.
This prospect brought out my own fears, for myself – “I can't stop thinking about Rose, my daughter, “and what would happen. My sleep imagining what would happen before Parkland. ” – and about meeting the families in the project and for them: “When I read about the plight of April and Phillip and Lori, I for some reason put myself in their emotional state, although it's impossible. I have no idea, it's beyond comprehension, I don't know what I'm supposed to say to them, I'm scared beyond belief.
But just a few days later, I was photographing the first assignment for this project: Elisa Alhadeff's room. She was just 14 years old when she left that room to go to Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I was nervous meeting the family friend who welcomed me home. Her daughter was Alyssa's best friend, and there was a photo of both girls on the table.
According to my notes, “The room was the messy room of a beautiful teenager. Hiding behind the camera kept my emotions in check as they usually are. I took off my shoes before entering. My heart was pounding. And it was resonating inside my body and soul, I felt like I was in one of the most sacred and special places on earth, I was so careful not to touch anything.”
I felt ready to explode in grief and anger.
Later that day, I photographed Carmen Schentrup's room. Her younger sister survived the Parkland shooting, but 16-year-old Carmen was killed in her AP Psychology class. Meeting her parents, April and Phillip, was what I feared the most.
I wrote at the time, “I feel a lot of pain and pity for them and I don't want to say the wrong thing, don't want to say cliché.” “I talked to Steve for guidance. He said, Just be you. That's all I can do. Just be me. He was right, those three words helped me move through this whole project. Just be me. Be.”
April let me in and I worked quickly, only meeting Phillip as I was leaving. “The conversation felt like the three of us were trying to keep it together. I can't imagine what they're going through, my heart hurts for them. It was a very painful project, and it would be impossible to reconcile .
“I wonder how anything could happen to any of us at any time. Literally. You never know,” I wrote.
After about 16 hours on the ground in Florida, my first part was over. I felt this project was important, but I was also afraid of Steve's next call about the next family. I didn't know when that call would come – years later, or the very next day, possibly never.
But last month, we – and the documentary crew who filmed us working – completed the project. Although I haven't seen it yet, I know that Steve's piece won't be the typical Steve Hartman segment. How can this be possible? I know she struggled too and we've both spent a lot of time processing it.
I remember one evening in August, when I left a family's house, I was devastated. Within minutes, I passed an ice cream shop filled with other families – completely carefree, full of joy and laughter. This comparison, which happened just a few minutes apart, shook my soul.
I hope that somehow, this project can facilitate change – the only possible positive outcome I can discern. Even after the news cycle ends, these families may still be living with an incomprehensible nightmare.