Every Picture Tells a Story

The Real Lives Behind the Lens and the Pen

In the quiet corners of everyday life, ordinary people often find themselves immortalized in ways they never imagined—through the viewfinder of a photographer or the ink of a writer’s pen. Whether captured candidly in a photograph or reimagined as a character in a story, these individuals unknowingly lend their lives to art. They become more than just passersby or background figures; they transform into muses, metaphors, and living echoes of human experience.

For photographers, the world is a living gallery of moments waiting to be captured. A weathered man sitting on a park bench, the way light dances across a child’s laughing face, or the tension etched into the shoulders of a woman walking alone—each scene is a potential story. Often, the subject has no idea that they have just stepped into the pages of a visual playbook. Their gestures, expressions, and the energy they radiate become a part of something greater—a reflection of mood, culture, or emotion. The photograph freezes their reality and elevates it into art.

Writers, on the other hand, weave people into narrative form. A conversation overheard on a train, a barista’s nervous smile, or an old friend’s resilience in grief—these fragments of life often become seeds of inspiration. The people we meet or merely observe become the blueprints for characters, sometimes in exact likeness, sometimes stitched together from multiple souls. Writers borrow bits of reality to create fiction that feels true. In doing so, they honor the people who left a mark, however briefly.

But this transformation from real life into art raises questions of representation and authenticity. Do we owe something to the people who unknowingly inspire us? Can we ever truly separate observation from invention? Photographers and writers alike walk this fine line, striving to capture truth while also interpreting it through their own lens of feeling and intent.

There is something sacred in this quiet transaction between life and art. Most people will never know they’ve been captured in a fleeting frame or mirrored in a fictional life. But perhaps that is part of the beauty. Their existence, however small in the context of a wider story, becomes part of a legacy—proof that the ordinary is worth remembering. They live on not as anonymous figures, but as meaningful presences in someone else’s vision.

Ultimately, art imitates life not just in grand gestures, but in the subtle details of everyday existence. The people we pass on sidewalks, sit beside in waiting rooms, or share a moment of silence with in elevators—these are the characters of our collective narrative. Photographers and writers are merely the witnesses, the translators. And through their work, these real lives continue to speak.

She Came to Stay

When I was in London recently I had occasion to stay at the Thistle Hotel. In the morning as I was having breakfast my waitress came over to offer me more coffee. Sure, I said, I’d love some. As she refilled my cup she glanced down at the book on the table which I had brought with me to read. She look back at me and then in her best English accent asked me, “Well did she?”

Of course to her I was the one with the accent.

“Did she what?”

“Did she stay?”

At first I didn’t know what she meant. I looked at her and then I looked at the book and then I look back at her again and then in an instant of recollection, understanding, and reckoning I said, “She did indeed.”

My waitress beamed a self-satisfied smile and flitted off to the next customer to offer them some coffee.

The next day I was off to France to drink a toast to the author of the book, Simone de Beauvoir. This I would do at the fabled Cafe De Flore in Paris.

But I still had another day in London so I thought I’d spend it at the British Museum.

Squirrel Hunting

“The quality of mercy is not strained. It falls to the ground like the gentle rain.” – William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

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The best way to shoot a squirrel is with a camera. When I was a young man I used to hunt squirrels with a 12 gauge shotgun. Now that I have grown older and have been influenced by Buddhism I have lost my taste for killing.

Once, when I was a teenager visiting my grandfather’s farm in Kentucky, I was out early one morning  with the shotgun. As I came upon the grainery in the early morning mist I noticed a motion just to my right. A groundhog had just climbed a fence post and was sitting on top of it just as pretty as you please.

Well, I drew a bead on the varmint and slowly cocked back the hammer of the single action shotgun. I had him in my sights and I wrapped my finger around the trigger and took a deep breath as I prepared to pull the trigger. But something happened at that moment. I began to think about what a cute little feller he was and he was well known to the family and everyone would be unhappy if I shot the creature.

I looked down the barrel of the gun and in my minds eye I shot the groundhog but I could not bring myself to actually kill he beast.  I slowly applied the web of my right thumb to the cocked hammer of the gun and gently released it to the non-firing position. The ground hog ran off to live another day.

I had an epiphany that day. One might say a moment of clarity. And I learned a valuable lesson that day about the use and abuse of power: It is more powerful to exercise mercy  by granting life than it is to execute an innocent creature who only wants to live as much as you do. I never killed again after that.