little people
Growing up in Hong Kong, I practically had a camera attached to my wrist. It all started when my mom bought my brother a point and shoot camera for his 13th birthday. Even though he was two years older than I, I took it from him and never gave it back. I brought the camera with me everywhere I went. I still have black and white pictures of my classmates smiling brightly at the camera. Of course, I had to coax them into the pose.
By the time I turned 17, I was winning local photography competitions, and my work was gaining notice. The Hong Kong City Council asked me to be one of the event photographers for a fundraiser called the “Walk for Millions”, where I was able to shoot “Miss Hong Kong” as well as many local movie stars. Imagine that, only 17 and having celebrities pose for me.
Some years later, I applied to schools in America. The University of Arizona offered me a full scholarship to study photography. The California Institute of Art welcomed me, too.
When I set foot in the U.S. over two decades ago, I had many dreams. First among them was to become a professional photographer. I brought all of my camera equipment with me from Hong Kong, but as it turned out, life in my new country was more challenging than I anticipated, and my camera equipment remained inside a storage box for 15 years.
So instead of living my dream, I listened to my mom and chose advertising over film and photography and majored in graphic design at the Massachusetts College of Art. My mom said film and photography were not for girls.
It wasn’t long after graduation that I got a job in advertising. And in about the time it takes to say, “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin'”, I became a slave to my career. Ads were ruling my life, and I stopped creating the kind of art that truly expresses who I am.
And then my son, Casey, came into my life and everything changed. I walked away from the very routine that had defined me for years — a routine that I had learned to embrace and one that rewarded me very well. At the time, I thought leaving advertising was the worst decision I had ever made. It turned out to be quite the opposite.
As a mother, I look at life through a different lens. I see light slipping through the darkness, casting lovely long shadows that reach out to me. I see softness in faces, and in flowers, and feathers when the clouds move about. For me, the park is never dressed in the same color.
And it was only a matter of time before my camera had found its place next to the box of baby wipes in the nursery, always ready to capture a fleeting moment.
Today, Casey’s world has grown bigger, and so has mine. From play dates in the park, to kindergarten graduation to swim meets to music recitals, it’s always the three of us — Casey, my camera, and me. But at the end of the day it’s Casey’s world, really. And thanks to the places, spaces and all the little people who enter Casey’s world, one little girl from Hong Kong has been able to revive a dying passion that went dormant so many years ago.