Why Photography Matters

unknown from my grandfather's camera

There’s a photograph of my grandfather working on the Panama Canal — shirt off, sun high, dirt on his hands. Another of him on a ship in the merchant marines, somewhere between ports and decades. I never met that version of him, but the image keeps him alive in a way stories alone can't.

Photography matters because it holds what time lets go of. In my hands are black-and-white images taken nearly a century ago, snapshots that outlived the people in them. My grandparents, young and strong. Family gatherings. Forgotten faces caught mid-laugh or mid-thought. These photos aren’t just history — they’re connection. Memory you can touch.

We live in a time of endless images. Scroll, click, delete. But the old photos… they demand a second look. They have weight. They slow you down. They ask you to listen.

Photography isn’t just about capturing something beautiful or rare — sometimes it’s about holding onto the ordinary. A lunch on the dock. A face at rest. A moment that would’ve otherwise vanished. It’s proof that we were here.

And now, when I go out with a camera — whether it’s a film camera or something digital — I’m not just chasing light. I’m honoring something passed down. A quiet tradition of paying attention.

Because the truth is: we won’t always remember what was said, or even who was there. But we might remember the way the light came through the window. The tilt of a smile. A hand on someone’s shoulder. And if we don’t — maybe the photo will.