Why do I write, or photograph, or play music? Why does any artist do what they do? Maya Angelou, who wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” Maybe that’s why I’m an artist, to exercise the agony of untold stories. Or maybe it’s like the first caveman who told a story about hunting bison and deer, before words were written with ochre and charcoal on a cave wall. Maybe I just create to say, “I existed. I lived. I was here.”I actually became a photographer in my journey as a writer; a friend of mine from theater had a camera, and I thought it would be easier to write about places if I had an image as reference. Little did I suspect that the allure of silver halide crystals would take me on an excursion where I would see my personal work displayed at local art galleries, the Chrysler Museum, Commonwealth and Tidewater Virginian magazines; and have the experience of working with thousands of people, recording the most joyous events in their lives.
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