I shot my mother first. then my sister when she tried to run.
It was my first time ever holding a camera. My mother told me it was a special kind of camera that was “disposable.” Meaning once it’s full and your photos have been developed; off to the trash can it goes. I never really understood why you would want to throw away a camera, but I just went along with the idea. At the time I had no idea, that in seven years I would be the owner of my own photography business. All I knew was that taking photos was a lot of fun.
Every week my parents would drive our tan Nissan Quest down to the nearest Walgreens. There I would get my photos developed. And also buy a new disposable camera.  I would fill up one of those within a couple of days. Nowadays, I value my mother and father for buying those cameras for me, otherwise I would not be the photographer I am now.

“Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst.”
~Henri Cartier-Bresson

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“Max, I got you something.” My mother has something behind her back she does not want me to see. But I can’ bare this suspense, it’s driving me crazy. An uncontrollable hopping sensation starts taking over my legs, then works its way all over my body till the whole world would be able to tell I really want to see what it is. A small box about the size of a bar of soap. My father stands a step or two behind her, hinting a grin at me.
“Son, my dad used make these in his basement. Your mom and I thought you would like to try one out.” His hand sits atop my mother’s shoulder as she extends her arm towards me. The smell of crushed and pressed wood engulfs my nasal cavities. Cardboard. The box is made of cardboard, something my sister and I make forts and houses out of this stuff. Ugh, my fingers are too small to get this thing open, being a first grader and all my hands aren’t nearly developed enough. My dad notices my struggle. His hands grasp the box, leaving the 0.01 inches of cardboard ajar. The matte plastic is a foreign sensation to my fingers. Rough, gritty spiraling edges come together at the lens. Pearing through the eyepiece, I notice the world through a small hole in the back. Everything is framed like the Mona Lisa. One by one, I take a couple shots. My mom, my sister, even my dog. They all lay frozen on the role of film inside this little machine I can fit into the palm of my hand.
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It was all gone, the one thing, at the time, I didn’t know I would need in the future. Photography had fell from my life’s hands, to the floor and shattered into a thousand six hundred seventy five pieces.. Completely vanished like a red pigment slowly disintegrating into dark violet fluid. Letting out a fragrance we all know as loss. I had lost myself in to aroma. It took over my mind, reeking havoc unnoticed by my own eye. I would see the rotting corpses of the cameras I once held in my own hands, but no longer do I hold them. I had forgotten the joy photography had brought to me.

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Jingle, Tingle, Jingle, Tingle. We hear those cookies crumblin’, cranky mothers yellin’:
“Put that down!” I drop the brightly colored box right on to the unwelcoming hardwood floor. Hearing whatever was inside, shatter. This is not going to be a good outcome. My mother’s furious features pound on my wall, finally deconstructing it brick by crusty, rusty brick. Ashes to ashes we all fall down. This merry Christmas is no longer merry. It has become my mother’s rage-mas. She has me sit down down on our new blue couch, it begins feels like I’ve been glued to it.
“I never said you could touch any of the gifts Max, they are to be opened later, not now.” Her gaze doesn’t stray from my eyes, which freaks me out. I’m an eleven year old, I still don’t really know what to do about this kind of stuff, being in trouble.
Later on. The gift giving has started off with a crash I guess, not the way everyone would want it to. A shiny silver wrapping paper surrounds the box my mother hands me. As my fingers grace the paper it practically unfolds itself. The corners of the box appear the top, the bottom, letters: C-A-M-E-R-A. The christmas lights are no longer the only thing that lights up in this house. My face shows the fireworks inside me. My mom seems to enjoy seeing my this happy. My very own camera that you can’t throw into the trash! A Nikon CoolPix camera (Which at the time was really cool). This is the only present I want to open this year. Nothing else that is sitting under that tree cannot match up to this godly piece of equipment in my hands.

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Photography has impacted my life in so many ways. It has lead me to pursue competing with my work and displaying it as a service to others.  I have started my own business, taking pictures for people, whether it’s senior photos or events. I’ve practically done it all. Without my parents getting me started in photography when I was in first grade I would never have gotten to where I am now. Thats what I really value, the power of the impact your parents  have on your life as a child, they really do mold you into the person you will be in the future.

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“Art is what we call…
the thing an artist does.

It's not the medium or the oil or the price or whether it hangs on a wall or you eat it. What matters, what makes it art, is that the person who made it overcame the resistance, ignored the voice of doubt and made something worth making.
Something risky.
Something human.

Art is not in the … eye of the beholder.
It's in the soul of the artist.”
-Seth Godin

. . .The End . . .