In early 2018, I was getting off a plane after an 18-hour flight when I got a call from Steve Hartman. He had the idea to film the still-intact bedrooms of children killed in school shootings.
It’s headful. And six years later, I still don’t have an “elevator pitch” for this project. But we don’t talk about the project very often after that. This is the most difficult task I have ever worked on.
When Steve, a friend of about 25 years, asked me if I wanted to participate, I said yes without hesitation. Even though we didn’t think any family would agree. There is no way I would refuse to cooperate with him.
Emotionally, I wasn’t sure how I would get through it. Within a few months I was headed to Parkland, Florida. Alone. I’m not sure I realized I was going to be alone.
But here I was. According to my LinkedIn professional profile, I am an on-site commercial photographer who focuses on people and pets to create compelling, honest, structured, and connected moments for large brands on projects where there is no one to take the photos. reason.
How do you paint a portrait of a child who isn’t there?
In each of these children’s rooms, the most sacred place for these families, there was the feeling that a child had just been there and was about to return. It was like going to school in the morning and returning in the afternoon.
I wanted to capture its essence.
Most children’s bedrooms are their own special places, and this one was no different. I looked around without touching anything. I took pictures inside the trash can, under the bed, and behind the desk. Their personalities shined through in even the smallest details – a hair tie tied to a doorknob, an unopened tube of toothpaste, a torn ticket to a school event – a glimpse into who they were.
But beyond the creative challenges, there were also emotional challenges. Over six years we visited many families across the country. The parents I spoke with seemed grateful that I was there. But every time I got a call or text from Steve about my new family, my heart sank.
It meant another family lost a child.
I think it’s unfathomable that even children being murdered in schools is a problem. This doesn’t make sense. Processing is not possible. The night before each family visit, I couldn’t sleep. And I knew I wasn’t going to be part of that project. It is not a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s nerves. And empathy. And sadness. And fear.
In my early notes on the project, written while sitting in seat 6H on a flight returning from Nairobi in 2018, I reflected on the emotional work I was about to undergo.
“This will be one of the most difficult tasks for me, not only work-related, but also emotionally. I am noticeably emotional as I read the research paper.” Don’t let other passengers see you.
The prospect brought my fears about myself to the forefront. “I can’t help but think about Rose.” My daughter “And what if. I lost sleep imagining homes long before Parkland” — and about meeting the families involved in the project: “When I read about April and Phillip and Laurie’s plight, for some reason… Even though it’s impossible to understand, I don’t know what to say to them, and I’m incredibly scared.”
But just a few days later, I was filming the first assignment of the project: Alyssa Alhadeff’s room. She was just 14 years old when she left that room to head to Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I was anxious when I met a family friend who welcomed me at home. Her daughter was Alyssa’s best friend, and a photo of the two girls was on the table.
According to my notes, “It was the messy room of a beautiful teenager. My emotions were suppressed as usual. Hidden behind the camera. I took off my shoes and entered. My heart was pounding and screaming.” I felt as if my body and soul were in the most sacred and special place on Earth. “I was careful not to touch anything.”
I left feeling like I was going to explode with sadness and anger.
Later that day I photographed Carmen Schentrup’s room. Her sister survived the Parkland shooting, but 16-year-old Carmen, who was taking an AP psychology class, died. Meeting her parents, April and Philip, was the scariest thing for me.
“I feel so much pain and pity for them. I don’t want to say the wrong thing or throw out a cliché,” I wrote at the time. “I looked to Steve for guidance. He said, ‘I just need you.’ That’s all I can do. Just be myself. He was right. Those three words helped me get through this whole project. It helped. Just be me.”
April let me in and I worked quickly and met Philip as I was leaving. “The conversation felt like the three of us were trying to come together. I couldn’t imagine what they were going through, and it broke my heart. It was such a painful project, and reconciliation would be impossible.”
“I think anything can happen to any of us, at any time. Literally. You never know,” I wrote.
I finished the first part in about 16 hours on the ground in Florida. I felt this project was absolutely necessary, but I was dreading the phone call when Steve would call me about my next family member. I had no idea when that call would come. It may be years later, or the very next day, or maybe it will never come.
But last month the documentary crew that filmed us and our work completed the project. I haven’t seen it yet, but I know Steve’s piece won’t be a typical Steve Hartman segment. How can that be? I know he’s been struggling too and we’ve both spent a lot of time processing this.
I remember one evening in August. I was devastated as I left my family’s home. Within a few minutes, I passed an ice cream shop crowded with other families. On the outside, it was calm and full of joy and laughter. The juxtaposition of just a few minutes apart broke my soul.
I hope that in some way this project can foster change. This is the only positive outcome I can understand. Even after the news cycle is over, these families will still be living with an incomprehensible nightmare.
