There are probably hundreds of little moments in your family life that you don’t think are worth photographing. The things that happen so often you barely notice them anymore.
Your children climbing all over you while you’re trying to drink your coffee. Two siblings lying in a hammock doing absolutely nothing. Making something together at the kitchen table, while simultaneously telling each other to stop annoying them.
It’s just Tuesday. And when you’re in the middle of family life, it’s very easy to think that the things worth photographing are the big things.
Birthdays. Christmas. Holidays. First days of school. The moments where everyone is clean, happy and looking in the same direction. But when I photograph families, those aren’t necessarily the things I’m looking for. And that’s not because I don’t think those moments matter but rather because I think the ordinary ones tell us something the big moments sometimes can’t.
And this is where what you see and what I see can be quite different. The difference is not just because I’m a photographer and therefore somehow see the world better than you. I don’t, I just notice different things.
What you see: the mess in the kitchen.
What I see: what you’re giving your children when you let them be part of things.
Flour on the worktop. Ingredients everywhere. Little hands covered in dough. You might see a kitchen that needs cleaning. I see a parent who would rather have their children involved than spend the whole afternoon telling them to stay out of the way.
I see the way you let them help, even though you know you’ll have more tidying up to do afterwards. One day, you might not remember the mess at all. You might just remember how much your children loved being in the kitchen with you. And your children will think back to making cookies with you which is where their future love for baking might come from in the first place.
What you see: your children climbing all over you while you look completely unimpressed.
What I see: a dad who is clearly used to being a climbing frame.
You’re not smiling at the camera. You don’t even particularly look like you’re enjoying yourself. But your boys know exactly where they belong. They climb on you. You tolerate it. Someone is probably elbowing someone else in the face. It isn’t a picture-perfect family moment. It’s much more useful than that: It’s a photograph of your actual relationship.
And years from now, I suspect you’ll remember the feeling of being climbed on long after you’ve forgotten what was happening that particular afternoon.
What you see: two brothers doing absolutely nothing.
What I see: a snapshot of who they were together.
They’re lying in a hammock. They’re not doing anything particularly interesting. They’re not even looking at the camera.
But look at them: The way they’re together. The comfort of it. The fact that they don’t need to be doing anything at all.
You might look at that photograph now and think, That’s it? They’re just lying in a hammock. But perhaps that’s exactly why you’ll love it later. Because one day they’ll be teenagers. Then adults. They’ll have their own homes and their own lives.
And you’ll look at that picture and remember when they were just two brothers who could spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing together.
What you see: your children annoying each other while you’re making charm bracelets.
What I see: sisters being sisters.
One is making a bracelet, the other is getting in the way. Someone is complaining, someone is laughing. Someone has probably just said something that wasn’t particularly kind. And you’re there in the middle of it, helping them make something.
It isn’t a perfectly peaceful craft afternoon. It’s better than that: It’s your family.
The little dynamics between your children. The way they bicker and then carry on playing five minutes later. The things they do that you know will probably disappear as they grow up.
Those are the details I want to notice.
What you see: playing chess with your children.
What I see: the things you’re passing on to them.
Maybe you’re thinking about the next move, maybe they’re arguing over the rules, maybe one of them is completely ignoring your advice – because they already know better than you.
To you, it might just be an afternoon playing chess. But I see the knowledge being passed from one generation to the next. The patience, the concentration, the conversations happening around the game.
And I see something else too: A childhood memory being made without anyone consciously trying to make one.
This is why I love photographs of “nothing”. Because “nothing” is usually not nothing at all. It’s the way your family spends an ordinary Tuesday.
It’s the things your children do when nobody has asked them to pose. It’s the relationships between you that exist whether or not there’s a camera in the room. It’s the mess, the boredom, the bickering, the games.
The cuddles that happen without anyone thinking about it. The routines you currently find completely unremarkable. And perhaps that’s why these photographs can become so valuable with time.
Because when you look at them years from now, you’re not just seeing a kitchen, a hammock, a chess board or a tired dad being climbed on. You’re seeing a whole period of your life. You’re remembering what your children were like. What they were interested in, how they interacted with each other, how you spent your afternoons and what your home looked like. Who you all were together.
You might see a photograph of two children lying in a hammock. I’ll see two brothers who were small enough to fit in there together.
You might see a messy kitchen. I’ll see a childhood where your children were allowed to make a mess.
You might see your children annoying each other. I’ll see sisters being sisters.
You might see an ordinary afternoon. I’ll see something you’ll never be able to recreate.
Because children grow, families change, homes change. And the ordinary things don’t stay ordinary forever. Sometimes, the photographs that seem to be about nothing are the ones that eventually make you think: That was our life.
And that’s exactly why I want to photograph it.
