Two Artists

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a conversation with my daughter that stopped me in my tracks. That moment made me think about something I’ve been carrying for almost two years now.

My dad was an art professor and accomplished artist—someone whose work hangs in museums, who wrote books about creating, who taught for decades at Massachusetts College of Art.

But when he sat down to draw with my daughter Mae, he never once tried to teach her or guide her hand. Instead, he followed her lead.

His whole artistic philosophy centered on “art from intuition“—throwing technique out the window, creating because you love it, not focusing on the result. And there she was: a master at work.

They had this thing where they’d draw together. Not him teaching her, but both of them just creating. She’d find a spot on the paper and add her mark. He’d find his own spot and add his. Two artists, decades apart in experience, meeting each other exactly where they were.

It was the essence of their relationship. The thing that was uniquely theirs.

I have phone videos of them working side by side. Shaky footage, bad lighting, toddler chaos in the background. I could see how beautiful it was while it was happening.

But I never stopped to honor it the way it deserved.

I was deep in survival mode—packing the car, managing a toddler on long drives, coordinating hospice care. The beautiful things happening around me felt like they’d just keep happening. There would always be next time to slow down and really see.

I kept thinking, “I’m a professional photographer. I can capture this anytime.”

But I never made space for “anytime” to actually arrive.

Here’s the tender ache I’ve been carrying: I witnessed something extraordinary—two souls, one new to this Earth and one preparing to leave it, sharing what they both loved most. And I saw it. I just didn’t think to create something that honored what I was seeing.

Not a phone video grabbed between diaper changes. Something intentional. Something that said: This matters enough to stop everything else.

When you’re in survival mode, you assume the extraordinary things will wait. That you’ll have time later to notice what’s right in front of you.

But they won’t. And you won’t.

I can’t get those moments back with my dad. But I think about them every time I pick up my camera now—every time a parent brings their child and grandparent into my studio, or when I document siblings lost in play, or a new parent gazing at their baby like nothing else in the world exists.

These aren’t just photo sessions. They’re the intentional pause I wish I’d given myself. The choice to say: This is important enough to slow down for. This deserves my full attention.

The beautiful things in your life are unfolding right now, even when you’re focused on managing everything else. But they won’t wait for you to notice them.

Maybe it’s time to create some space. To slow down enough to really see what’s worth preserving.