My First Camera

I was 12 years old when I got my first camera — a gift from my grandfather. Growing up, I’d leave behind the Midwest every summer to spend time in the mountains of Colorado, where my grandparents lived.

My grandfather was the first filmmaker I ever met. He was always working on a new project of some kind, most of them these really long home movies where he’d interview everyone in town about nothing of real consequence for seemingly no reason at all. 

Papa also practiced still photography, in a small closet he’d converted into a dark room. When he was working on something, he’d turn off his hearing aids so he could focus. It was in that dark room that he taught me how to develop my own stills.

And it was my grandfather who taught me how to be a storyteller. 

During those Colorado summers, he’d pull me out of bed early in the morning to watch the sun rise over the mountains. We’d sit, he’d smoke his pipe, and he’d talk. Mostly about his travels, but also about how my grandmother was a fearless pilot.

Most importantly, he believed in me — deeply. If he hadn’t given me that camera, and taught me how to shoot my own photos, and spent all those mornings regaling me of his life’s journeys, I know I wouldn’t be the filmmaker I am today. His spirit and energy are in everything I’ve ever, and always will be.