A Viewfinder for the Soul

listening to lush
wildflower symphonies sing
the song of crickets

Photography was only a purely visual act for me during my years as a commercial photographer, when every job had a clearly defined outcome. Once I had mastered the techniques needed for production, the work itself became fairly straightforward. Of course, the business side always needed tending, but clients chose me based on what they saw in my portfolio — a portfolio that showed not only what I could do but also that I could do it quickly and within budget.

If your portfolio demonstrates craftsmanship and aligns with a client’s vision, you go to work. That’s the job. But when I stepped away from commercial photography and tried to reconnect with the artist I had been before my career, I found it far more difficult than I expected.

This article picks up from that turning point, the moment I began moving away from the structured mindset of commercial work. The transition wasn’t seamless. I had to unlearn habits of utility and rediscover a more intuitive voice. Writing, especially stories and poems, became the bridge that helped me get there.

I remembered how photography had once been a way of seeing, of expressing something deeply personal and felt, long before my commercial career took hold. I wanted to return to that. But as I began stepping away from client work, I realized I was still thinking in terms of “the printed page.” Layouts, color palettes, structured compositions — all of it surfaced instinctively. And while those instincts had served me well in the commercial world, they started to feel like a constraint. What once helped guide my work had become a weight, pressing down on the freedom I sought. It took years to unravel the habits I had built as a professional photographer, and creative writing tossed me the lifeline I needed to reclaim that inner voice.

Because I enjoy reading and writing, I became a Literature major at Georgia State University for a couple of years. I wasn’t after a degree; my goal was to learn directly from working writers, to immerse myself in the classics, and to sharpen my creative writing through their experience. I had the privilege of studying with some excellent professors, and one of my favorites was Leon Stokesbury. Dr. Stokesbury was both a gifted poet and a demanding teacher; strict for sure, but also an insightful guide. He graded my work honestly and encouraged me to stop imitating and listen to my voice. What I learned from him was invaluable: to be true to myself creatively.

Those lessons stayed with me throughout my career. Creative writing remained tucked away in my mind for years, quietly observing. But something shifted when I began stepping away from the demands of client work. I felt the pull to return to writing — not in the formal way I had studied, but as a way to reconnect with the emotional core of my photography. The poems and stories began rising again, often sparked by a single image. Writing gave shape to the feelings my photographs couldn’t always contain.

That emotional sensitivity had long been part of my work, even when I didn’t always name it. I think it’s what helped me connect with clients during my years as a wedding photographer. My Wedding Storybooks had a distinctive style that resonated with people, including some well-known names and families in Atlanta. I stayed busy, booked well in advance, and had to turn work away — something I never took for granted.

I’ve learned that those same instincts that guided me in weddings and now in personal work often begin with a feeling. Have you ever encountered a scene or an object that felt strangely familiar, even though you couldn’t place why? Or found yourself pulled into a moment that unexpectedly stirred your imagination? That’s how it happens for me. I find something, or maybe it finds me, and suddenly a sense of recognition or a thread of story begins to unspool. It’s as if the photograph becomes an opening into something deeper, something waiting to be said.

Some people experience that kind of creative spark through music. For me, the rock, folk, and jazz of the ’60s and ’70s still hold a special place. Certain songs transport me instantly, not just back to a moment, but to a feeling. My mother had excellent taste in jazz and played it throughout the house when I was young. Later, in my teenage years, music became a new avenue of emotional release. If I wasn’t painting something to hang on the wall or making a Polaroid to pass around, I was getting lost in the music. It was an incredibly creative time for my growing mind, and I’m sure you also have your own memories of discovery and expression.

As a mature adult, photography and writing have become my main creative channels. And you know what the most liberating part is? There’s no production schedule, deadlines, or pressure to please a client or pay the bills. I shoot and write on my own timetable, following my ideas. For me, that’s the ultimate creative freedom.

There was a time I believed that if I were rich, I’d be the happiest artist in the world. But the truth is, I’ve learned I need boundaries to stay grounded. Too much freedom, or money, and I might drift or overindulge. Oddly enough, it’s the balance between space and discipline that keeps me moving, keeps me making. And in this phase of life, that’s enough.

If you’re a photographer reading this, I encourage you to try writing something alongside one of your images. It doesn’t have to be perfect, and it doesn’t even have to be poetry or a story in the traditional sense. It can be a thought, a memory, or a single sentence that captures your feelings or the scene’s suggestion.

You might be surprised at what rises to the surface.

Combining words with images has helped me see more clearly, feel more deeply, and stay connected to the reasons I picked up a camera in the first place. The photograph may stop time, but the writing lets the moment breathe a little longer. Together, they fully express what I see and who I am.

We all have stories waiting to be told. Sometimes, they arrive through the lens, and sometimes through the pen. For me, the dance between the two keeps my creativity alive.

Looking back, I see that my journey through photography, commercial work, and writing wasn’t a straight line; it was a winding path of learning, letting go, and returning to what matters most. Today, I create not for approval or a paycheck, but for the joy of expression and connection. If something I write, photograph, or share stirs a memory or feeling in someone else, I’ve done what I set out to do. Art, after all, is not just about showing what we see; it’s about sharing what we feel. And when words and images come together, they can reach beyond the frame.

If there’s one image in my portfolio that offers a glimpse into my inner world, a viewfinder for my soul, it’s Wildflower Symphony. I chose it for this article because it’s both naturally beautiful and full of movement, flexible in how it bends but never breaks.

I believe in a kind of beauty, other than physical, the quiet one living in the spirit and found in nature, and the steady, enduring strength of love.

That same spirit lives in Wildflower Symphony. It reflects the part of me that endures, weathered, open, and quietly blooming through change.

The image was created during a transitional period in my life, and isn’t just a favorite; it’s a mirror. It reminds me that what I see through the viewfinder often reflects what I carry inside. That’s why I believe the viewfinder, when used with intention, can become a tool for soul-searching, not just image-making. Emotion and light meet, where something honest and enduring can emerge.

Wildflower Symphony was selected for a LensWork publication, the only fine art photography journal I’ve ever truly aspired to be part of. When it was published, a long-held goal was quietly fulfilled.

Sometimes a photograph will nudge me toward a short story. When it does, it’s because that’s how the image speaks to me, whether through fiction or something rooted in memory. When the words start to flow, I let them live.

Other times, it’s a haiku that surfaces. I often turn to the traditional Japanese form, the 5-7-5 syllable structure, as a creative discipline. It helps me slow down and truly listen to what a moment is trying to say. Haiku leaves no space for rambling. It demands clarity, restraint, and attention to the essence of a scene.

It reminds me of that famous six-word story often attributed to Hemingway:
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Whether or not he wrote it, those six words hold a world of emotion. That’s the kind of impact I hope for when I write haiku alongside my photographs — to offer just enough for someone to feel something, and maybe even find themselves in the quiet space between the lines.

The haiku I wrote for Wildflower Symphony came to me the same way the image did: quietly, and all at once. I remember standing in that field, in mid-flight of my transition from past to future, no longer where I had been, not yet where I was going. The wind moved through the wildflowers like music, and I just listened. That’s what the image held, and that’s what I tried to hold in the words: a brief, open window through the viewfinder of my soul.