Why Photographs of Our Parents Become More Valuable With Time.
We take thousands of photographs throughout our lives. But sometimes it isn’t until years later that we understand which ones really matter.
Someone recently said something to my sister about our mom.
“Your mom was always smiling.”
And immediately, I knew exactly what they meant.
My mom’s name was Lois.
I have this beautiful photograph of her in a sunflower field, smiling.
But if you knew my mom, you’d notice something else in that smile too.
There was usually just a little bit of mischief in it.
Like she knew something you didn’t.
Like she might be about to say something that would make everyone laugh.
That was Mom.
And when I look at that photograph, I don’t just see what she looked like.
I see her.
The smile everyone remembers.
That little spark in her expression.
The person behind the photograph.
My mom has since passed away, and photographs of her mean something entirely different to me now than they did when they were taken.
I spent more than 30 years as a photojournalist. Photographs have been part of my life for as long as I can remember.
I’ve photographed important moments and ordinary ones. People celebrating. People grieving. Families changing. Children growing up.
I have always understood that photographs matter.
But understanding that as a photographer and understanding it as a daughter are two very different things.
Because now, when I look at that photograph of my mom smiling among the sunflowers, I’m not thinking about the light.
I’m not thinking about the composition.
I’m certainly not wondering whether everything was technically perfect.
I’m thinking:
There you are.
And maybe that’s what photographs of the people we love eventually become.
A way of saying:
There you are. That’s exactly how I remember you.
We think we have lots of photographs of our parents.
And we probably do.
They’re on our phones.
There are pictures from Christmas.
Pictures from birthdays.
Pictures with the grandchildren.
Pictures from weddings.
Pictures where Dad is standing beside the barbecue.
Pictures where Mom is halfway through saying something because someone decided that was the perfect moment to take the picture. 😂
And I love those photographs.
We need those too.
The ordinary photographs are part of the story.
But sometimes I think we confuse having pictures of someone with having photographs that really let us see them.
When was the last time you saw a beautiful photograph of your mom that was really about her?
Not Mom holding the new grandbaby.
Not Mom standing at the edge of the family group.
Not Mom trying to make sure everybody else looks good.
Just her.
When was the last time somebody really photographed your dad?
Not because it was a wedding.
Not because somebody handed him a grandchild and pulled out a phone.
Just Dad.
His face.
His laugh.
That expression everybody in the family knows.
And if your parents are together, when was the last time someone created a beautiful photograph of the two of them?
Not because they reached a particular anniversary.
Simply because their relationship was worth photographing.
We photograph the beginning of everything.
Think about how many photographs we make when our children are little.
Tiny fingers.
First birthdays.
First days of school.
Missing teeth.
Halloween costumes.
Christmas concerts.
Graduations.
We document everything.
And then those children grow up.
They build careers.
They fall in love.
They build families of their own.
And the people who were once at the centre of all those photographs become Mom and Dad.
Then Grandma and Grandpa.
And slowly, the camera starts pointing toward the next generation.
Mom becomes the person trying to get all the grandchildren to look at the camera.
Dad is standing somewhere at the back.
Someone says, “Everybody squeeze in!”
And we make another photograph where the people who helped create this whole family somehow become supporting characters in it.
I think we should change that.
Your parents don’t need to reach a milestone to be worth photographing.
We’re very good at waiting for a reason.
A 50th anniversary.
An 80th birthday.
A retirement.
A family reunion.
Some enormous milestone that finally makes everyone say:
“We really should get some photographs.”
But sometimes the relationship itself is the milestone.
Your mom being your mom is reason enough.
Your dad being your dad is reason enough.
The two of them still laughing together after all these years is reason enough.
The way your mother looks at your father.
The way Dad’s whole face changes when the grandchildren walk through the door.
The stories you’ve heard a hundred times.
The hands you remember holding yours when you were little.
The face you have known for your entire life.
That is worth photographing.
Not someday.
Now.
And please, get in some of the photographs with them.
This matters too.
If you have the opportunity to create beautiful photographs of your parents, don’t spend the entire time standing behind the camera.
Get in.
Make photographs of Mom by herself.
Dad by himself.
Your parents together.
And then step into the frame.
You and your mom.
You and your dad.
Your siblings.
The grandchildren.
The generations.
The relationships.
Because years from now, the photograph you treasure most might not be the beautiful portrait of your parent looking at the camera.
It might be the one where you’re beside them.
The one where Mom is looking at you instead of the camera.
The one where Dad made everyone laugh.
The one where you can see something between two people that would be impossible to explain to anyone who wasn’t there.
Those photographs aren’t simply about what everyone looked like.
They’re about what you meant to each other.
I wish I could tell you which photograph will become the important one.
After more than three decades behind a camera, you’d think I could.
I can’t.
Sometimes it’s the beautiful portrait.
Sometimes it’s the photograph where everybody is laughing.
Sometimes it’s an expression.
A gesture.
A relationship.
Sometimes it’s a photograph you barely noticed when it was made.
And then life changes.
Suddenly, you can see everything that was inside it.
That’s what happened with photographs of my mom.
They became more than pictures of what she looked like.
They became reminders of who she was.
The smile.
The little bit of mischief behind it.
The expressions I’d recognize anywhere.
Those tiny pieces of a person that are almost impossible to describe—and instantly recognizable to the people who loved them.
So photograph your parents.
Use your phone.
Take the ordinary pictures.
Take the ridiculous ones.
Take the Christmas morning pictures.
Photograph Dad doing whatever Dad does.
Photograph Mom laughing.
Photograph the stories you’ve heard a hundred times.
Don’t wait for everyone to lose weight.
Don’t wait until the house is clean.
Don’t wait for the perfect clothes, the perfect occasion or the perfect anything.
Take the pictures.
But every once in a while, do something else too.
Create a photograph intentionally.
One where your parents aren’t an afterthought.
One where they aren’t standing behind the grandchildren.
One where they aren’t simply Mom, Dad, Grandma or Grandpa.
One that’s really about them.
And please—
get in a few with them.
Because photographs have this extraordinary ability to become more valuable as time passes.
Today, it might simply be a beautiful photograph of your mom.
Years from now, someone might say:
“Your mom was always smiling.”
And you’ll be able to look at that familiar face, smiling back at you from a field of sunflowers, with just a hint of mischief in her eyes, and think:
She really was.
And maybe even:
I know that look.
I know the importance of photographs as a photographer.
But more importantly,
I know it as a daughter.
Lorraine Hjalte
Willow Creek Studio & Boutique
Nanton, Alberta
Maybe this has you thinking about your own parents.
Let’s create photographs that feel like them.
Maybe Ridiculous Isn’t Such a Bad Thing
I think I have spent a surprising amount of my life being afraid of looking ridiculous.
It started early.
I was in Grade 1 when my parents bought me the most beautiful blue bicycle for my birthday. I loved that bike.
But apparently, my happiness was a little too much for someone else.
A girl in Grade 2 felt the need to tell everyone that her mother had said my parents couldn't afford to feed us, let alone buy a brand-new bicycle.
I was six
I don't remember exactly what I said or did in that moment. But I remember how it felt.
Like I had something I wasn't supposed to have.
Like somehow I was less than the other kids. Like having something beautiful made me an imposter.
Funny how those little moments follow us.
Growing up, there were plenty of other reminders that maybe I wasn't quite enough. That I wasn't going to accomplish much. That other people belonged in certain rooms and maybe I didn't.
And then I became a photojournalist.
I walked into a profession that, when I started, was very much a man's world.
And believe me, there were men along the way who were more than happy to let me know they didn't think I was good enough.
So I did what a lot of women do.
I worked harder.
I learned.
I showed up.
I built a career.
I photographed history. I photographed ordinary people living extraordinary moments. I photographed joy and devastation and everything in between.
And eventually, I spent nearly three decades doing the very thing some people didn't think I was good enough to do.
Then I did something else that might have seemed ridiculous.
I started over.
I built Willow Creek Studio & Boutique and began creating a completely different kind of photography business — one centred around celebrating women and the lives they've lived.
And wouldn't you know it?
Ridiculous showed up again.
Recently, two different people told me my prices were ridiculous.
That word stuck with me.
Ridiculous.
First of all, Step One is in this process has been learning how to spell ridiculous.
I have now typed it enough times that I think I've finally got it. 😂
But Step Two is much more important.
Embracing it.
Because maybe I am building something ridiculous.
Maybe it is ridiculous to believe a woman deserves an entire day devoted to herself.
Maybe it's ridiculous to have her hair and makeup done, put on the beautiful dress, drink the wine, wear the angel wings and be photographed like she matters.
Maybe it's ridiculous for a woman in her 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s or beyond to stand in front of a camera and say:
This is me.
Not twenty years ago.
Not twenty pounds from now.
Not when life finally settles down.
Now.
Maybe it's ridiculous to celebrate the business she built, the children she raised, the career she created, the people she loved, the losses she survived, the chances she took and the woman she fought to become.
But you know what I think is actually ridiculous?
Waiting.
Waiting for someone else to tell us we're good enough.
Waiting until we feel worthy.
Waiting until we lose the weight.
Waiting until we have more money, more confidence, more time or fewer wrinkles.
Waiting for permission to celebrate a life we're already living.
I've spent enough years worrying about whether someone else thinks I belong here.
The little girl with the blue bicycle didn't need to feel ashamed because someone else was jealous of her joy.
The photographer didn't need permission from the men around her to believe she was good enough.
And the 64-year-old woman building this business doesn't need everyone to understand what she's creating—or agree with what it's worth.
Maybe that's one of the gifts of getting older.
You finally begin to realize how much of your life you can waste trying not to look ridiculous.
So I'm trying something different.
I'm embracing it.
The ridiculous ideas.
The ridiculous dreams.
The ridiculous outfits.
The ridiculous angel wings.
The ridiculous belief that women deserve to take up space, celebrate themselves and leave behind beautiful evidence that they were here.
This was me.
I was here.
I lived fully.
And if that's ridiculous?
Good.
Let's be ridiculous.
You Spent Years Becoming This Woman. She Deserves to Be Seen.
When was the last time you really saw yourself?
Not glanced in the mirror while brushing your teeth.
Not checked your reflection before walking out the door.
Not looked at a photograph and immediately started listing all the things you wish were different.
I mean really saw yourself.
I had an experience a few years ago that changed the way I think about this.
And considering I had already spent more than 30 years behind a camera, that’s saying something.
I was photographed by my friend and mentor, Cat.
Now, you would think someone who has spent decades photographing other people would be perfectly comfortable on the other side of the camera.
Nope. 😂
I had all the same thoughts I hear from women in my studio.
What am I going to wear?
What am I supposed to do with my hands?
Will I look awkward?
Should I lose a few pounds first?
Maybe I should wait.
But I didn't wait.
I showed up.
And Cat did for me what I had spent years doing for other people.
She guided me.
She posed me.
She helped me choose what to wear.
She saw things in me that I wasn't necessarily seeing in myself.
And then I saw the photographs.
There was this strange little moment when I looked at them and thought:
There I am.
Not a younger version of me.
Not a thinner version.
Not some version of myself I thought I was supposed to become before I was worthy of being photographed.
Me.
And I liked her.
Actually, I liked her a lot.
I liked her enough that I printed one of those photographs ridiculously large.
Large enough that someday my children may have to argue over who actually has enough wall space for it. 😂
But something happened through that experience that was much bigger than getting a photograph I loved.
I saw myself differently.
I've watched the same thing happen in my own studio.
A woman walks through my door and almost immediately starts telling me everything she thinks is wrong with her.
She needs to lose weight.
She hates her arms.
She doesn't like her smile.
She's never been photogenic.
She doesn't know how to pose.
She'll probably be awkward.
She should have done this ten years ago.
I hear it all.
And I understand it.
Because I've said some of those things too.
But then we start.
Hair and makeup.
Clothes.
Music.
Conversation.
A little laughter.
I guide her through every pose and expression.
She stops wondering what she's supposed to do with her hands.
She stops thinking about the camera quite so much.
And eventually, something shifts.
She starts having fun.
She starts taking up a little more space.
She starts letting herself be seen.
And then we sit down together and look at what we've created.
That's when I get to watch it happen.
The pause.
The stare.
Sometimes the tears.
And very often:
“Is that REALLY me?”
Yes.
That's really you.
You spent years becoming this woman.
Think about that for a minute.
You didn't just wake up one morning and become who you are.
You lived your way here.
You've made mistakes.
Changed your mind.
Started over.
Loved people.
Lost things.
Built things.
Raised people.
Helped people.
Worked.
Learned.
Failed.
Succeeded.
Surprised yourself.
You've walked through things your younger self couldn't possibly have imagined.
You've earned some laugh lines.
Maybe some silver hair.
Definitely a few stories.
And somehow, after all of that becoming, so many women still look at themselves and think:
Maybe when I lose the weight.
Maybe when I feel more confident.
Maybe when life settles down.
Maybe next year.
But here's what I've learned.
There will always be another reason to wait.
And there will always be another version of ourselves we think we're supposed to become.
At some point, we have to stop moving the finish line.
Because the woman you are today isn't the woman waiting to become worthy of being photographed.
She's the woman you spent all those years becoming.
Maybe it's time you saw her.
You don't need a milestone.
We tend to think photographs need an occasion.
A wedding.
A new baby.
A big birthday.
An anniversary.
A new job.
A major transformation.
Something that gives us permission to say:
Okay. Now I have a reason.
But what if you don't need one?
What if you don't need to accomplish one more thing?
Lose one more pound?
Reach one more birthday?
Wait for one more milestone?
What if the reason is simply:
This is me.
This is who I am right now.
This is the life I've built.
This is the face that has laughed and cried and worried and celebrated and kept going.
This is the body that has carried me through all of it.
This is the woman I've become.
Sometimes the woman herself is reason enough.
Portraits aren't about vanity.
I think sometimes women worry that wanting beautiful photographs of themselves is somehow vain.
That we should need a practical reason.
A business headshot.
A family photograph.
A gift for someone else.
Something that makes it okay to step in front of the camera.
I don't believe that anymore.
I think there's something powerful about allowing yourself to be seen.
Not hiding behind your children.
Not volunteering to take the picture so you don't have to be in it.
Not waiting until you're smaller, younger, braver or somehow more deserving.
Just saying:
This is me.
And letting that be enough.
Because a portrait isn't about pretending you're somebody else.
At least, mine aren't.
I'm not interested in turning you into some overly polished version of who you think you're supposed to be.
I want the woman your friends recognize.
The expression your partner knows.
The laugh your children have heard a thousand times.
The confidence you've earned.
The softness.
The strength.
The ridiculousness.
The glamour.
The parts of you that maybe don't usually get much attention.
You.
Maybe visibility is part of the becoming.
That's something I've come to believe more and more.
We spend so much of our lives becoming.
Building.
Doing.
Taking care of people.
Figuring things out.
Moving on to whatever needs us next.
And we don't always stop long enough to acknowledge the person doing all of it.
Maybe being photographed gives us that pause.
A chance to step outside the noise for a minute and actually look at ourselves.
Not critically.
Not searching for what needs fixing.
Just seeing.
There I am.
And perhaps that's why the experience of being photographed changed something for me.
The photograph didn't create a different woman.
It let me see the woman who was already there.
So here's my question.
When was the last time you really saw yourself?
Not the version you're trying to improve.
Not the version you were twenty years ago.
Not the version you think everyone else expects.
You. Now.
Because the people who love you already see someone worth celebrating.
Maybe it's time you did too.
You spent years becoming this woman.
She deserves to be seen.
— Lorraine
Maybe you're ready to see her.
Fierce, Fabulous & Fascinating is my fully guided portrait experience created to celebrate the woman you are today.
Not twenty years ago.
Not twenty pounds from now.
Now.
Why I Am Not Retiring
"I am not photographing women because I take beautiful pictures. I am photographing women because I understand how fragile a life is, how quickly it can change, and how important it is that someone leaves proof they were here."