The First Frames, a reflection.
The First Frames
Before the Leica. Before the studio. Before I really knew what I was doing — there were these. The first frames. Awkward, overexposed, underexposed, sometimes lucky. But every one of them mattered.
This is the last in the series — a look back not just at the photos, but at the kid (and then the college student) behind the camera.
I always had a camera around my neck or in my bag. It was the late 1970s and early 1980s when I first got one. At first, it was a way to hide. I was a shy kid, an immigrant with a thick accent. I spoke English, but not well, and kids noticed. The camera was my extension — a way to reach out without having to explain myself.
When I showed photos, the accent disappeared. I wasn’t the Filipino kid with the funny voice. I was just the kid with a camera.
Home life wasn’t easy. My parents were working hard at the bakery, and I was trying to fit in. The camera became my Band-Aid — my way of patching up the scrapes you couldn’t see. Lifting it to my eye made things easier.
When we moved to Sacramento in 1982, I was 15. Christian Brothers High School was another adjustment, but I carried the camera everywhere. It was my blankie, my way of navigating.
And then came college. That’s when it grew. Suddenly, the camera wasn’t just protection. It was a passport. It gave me access to people, to places, to stories I never would’ve touched otherwise. It became less about hiding and more about discovering.
That’s what these early frames were: Donna in the garage, Holly in the pines, the Girl I Don’t Remember, Kelley in her blue sweater. The photos weren’t perfect, but they were mine. They were teaching me learning not just how to shoot, but how to see.
This is the last First Frames post. Next week, I’ll be on the road again, starting a new chapter with this blog. Different time, different places — but in some ways, the same story. I’m still carrying a camera, still trying to connect, still learning to see.
