Jessica, at The Duke Mansion | Fall, 2025
Where It All Began
I grew up between Florida and North Carolina, shaped by places where light, water, and family were part of everyday life. Some of my earliest memories are from Florida springs—long afternoons in the water, searching for shark's teeth with my brother, watching how sunlight shifted beneath the surface. Those days taught me how to notice small things before I ever thought about photography.
At home, photographs were everywhere. Family albums lived on shelves within reach, their pages softened from being turned again and again. They weren’t saved for special occasions. They were part of daily life—looked through, talked about, returned to often. I spent hours flipping through those albums, learning how images hold time and keep stories close.
Around that same time, I was taking photos with a little Nickelodeon instant camera, the kind that printed sticky-backed pictures you could press onto anything. I loved how immediate it felt—how a moment became something you could hold onto. I didn’t think of it as art yet. It just felt natural to want to keep what mattered.
Hand developed during my sophmore year of high school, in the dark room at our local college. Matte print scan. | Fall, 2005
Learning Photography by Hand
In high school, I had the opportunity to learn how to process real film using a local college’s darkroom. Standing there, watching images slowly appear under red light, changed how I understood photography. It required patience and care, and it taught me that images don’t need to be rushed to be meaningful.
During those years, I traveled to New York City with my high school art club. We spent days moving through museums, seeing work that felt entirely new and exciting. Those visits introduced me to expressive forms of film photography—Holgas, Lomography, and images that embraced imperfection, the impermanence of connection & time, and nostalgia over perfection. It expanded how I thought about what photography could be.
Around that same time, almost by chance, I bought my first Polaroid SX-70 at the last second during an eBay auction in 2005. I brought it with me on that trip, photographing the city as I experienced it. When I returned home, I scanned the images onto my computer and carefully kept the originals. I still have them, and that camera.
Holding those prints now feels like holding a younger version of myself—curious, observant, and completely in love with noticing.
The following scans were made in 2005, using either my beloved Polaroid SX-70 Land Camera or a simple Lomo I picked up at the MoMA Design Store during a high school art club trip to New York.
As usual, I’m not in the first image on the cathedral steps—I’m the one taking the photo. Hi, friends!
My high school art club, on the steps of a cathedral in Manhattan | Winter, 2005
Exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art | Winter, 2005
My front yard, in full bloom | Spring, 2005
Winston-Salem, Post Office | Spring, 2005
The Original Clemmons Taco Bell (Pre-fire) | Summer, 2005
St. Augustine, Florida | July 4, 2005
Learning Through Making
Before photography became my full-time work, I spent an important chapter working alongside my mom, running a jewelry boutique in Wake Forest, North Carolina. It was where I first learned how much care lives in the details—how something is chosen, how it’s presented, and how people are welcomed. During that same period, she was quietly practicing the recipes that would later become the foundation of our bakery.
A few years later, we opened a small mother-daughter bakery together in downtown York. Everything we made was from scratch. The days started early, lasted into the evenings, and moved steadily, shaped by long hours and an attention to detail that couldn’t be rushed. Saturday mornings were filled with laughter and familiar faces. The ever-present, comforting scent of cinnamon, butter, and artisan bread—made with care—lingered as our work became a tradition, something people looked forward to each weekend.
The line often stretched from the door to the street, the community finding its way in, guided by the sweet smells drifting through downtown.
Working side by side taught me patience, consistency, and the importance of showing up fully—for the people you work with and the people you serve. The care that went into every display, every recipe, and every interaction carries into my photography today, shaping how I approach my work in a way that feels thoughtful, steady, and intentional.
On The Rise Bakery, our second location | Fall, 2019
On the Rise | An Artisan Bakery in Historic York, South Carolina
From 2013-2020
Always from scratch. Always mother & daughter. Beginning at home, at the end of our time living in Raleigh. Moving to the stands at Inman Farms, meeting our first regulars at the roadside farmer’s market every Saturday—in my new home, York. Our first location opened at 9 N. Congress Street, in the heart of historic downtown, in 2013; later sold for the opportunity to open our larger, second, & final location in 2018, at 18 N. Congress Street. Covid brought a bittersweet end to the bakery, closing on Christmas Eve. Forever missed, this was the opportunity that led me to explore photography full-time. No longer just a hobby, but life come full circle.
Art, Light, and Attention
Art has always been part of how I understand the world. Museums, film, music, and the way light especially, has always guided me. Not just how it looks, but how it feels—how it settles into a room and softens a moment, or strikes drama with shadow into the air. That awareness comes from years of noticing rather than trying to control what’s unfolding.
Why this Work Matters
Being on the other side of the camera during my own wedding experience changed how I understand this work in a lasting way. Spending years together with my now husband before getting engaged, then planning a wedding of our own, made clear how quickly the time surrounding your day moves and how easily moments can slip past if you’re not fully present.
One of the most meaningful parts of that chapter was our engagement session, photographed in the same Florida springs I grew up exploring. We ended the session by jumping into the water together, laughing, completely ourselves. Our photographer—who has since become both a close friend and a colleague—jumped in too. That experience was a reminder that the most meaningful photographs often come from letting the moment unfold rather than trying to manage it.
When we got married, including our daughter was never a question. She stood alongside us the entire time, grounding the day and reinforcing something I believe deeply: there is no single right way to celebrate a wedding, only what feels true to you.
Those experiences stay with me every time I photograph a couple. They’ve shaped how I move through a wedding day and how I think about what lasts. I don’t separate who I am from what I create—the two have grown together, shaped by lived experience and an understanding of how quickly these moments pass.
