The First Frames: The Girl I Don’t Remember

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 third in a series of early shoots — small moments that shaped how I learned to see.

I wish I remembered her name.

It was Sacramento, sometime in 1987 or possibly early 1988. I saw a flyer — one of those group shoot events where photographers are paired with practice models. We met somewhere in a park or on the edge of a college campus. I brought what I think was my Nikon FM2 and a roll of black-and-white film. I was still learning, still winging it.

Sacramento, 1987 or ’88. Probably shot with a Nikon FM2 on Kodak Tri-X 400. Scanned from an 8x10 darkroom print.

She had presence. Natural, calm, and quietly confident. That sweater, the breeze in her hair, the way she looked just out of frame — I don’t remember much else, but I remember that.

This is the only photo I have of her.

It’s an 8x10 print I made in the darkroom, not long after the shoot. It’s been in my portfolio book ever since. It’s held up surprisingly well. I’m almost sure it was shot on Kodak Tri-X 400 — the grain gives it away, especially in this scan of the original print.

We didn’t exchange info. I never sent her a copy. And yet, the image stuck with me. Not because it’s technically perfect. It’s not. But because it marked something — a shift in how I saw, how I felt behind the camera. Like maybe I was starting to understand what photography could be.

I never saw her again. But I’m glad I have this.