[ about ]
Nobody knows how to write these
I've rewritten this page eleven times
Meet Carissa — elopement photographer, Sunshine Coast
[ How it started ]
There wasn't a grand beginning. No moment at somebody else's wedding where I picked up a camera and the heavens opened.
There were boys. Three of my own, and a week that went footy, touch footy, cricket, hockey, repeat. I photographed all of it — not just mine, everyone's. At the end of each season I'd hand the other parents pictures of their kid mid-air, mid-tackle, mid-something, and watch their faces do a particular thing.
I was obsessed with freezing it. This was before social media, which I still think was the best part — those moments were ours. Nobody else's.
Sixteen years ago, for each of their twenty-firsts, I made an album. Enormous things. Every year from kindergarten to graduation, all the small quirks of who they turned out to be.
You'd think three grown boys wouldn't care much about that. They did. So did everyone else in the room — I watched people turn the pages for a long time, go quiet, and then say it out loud. I wish I had this.
Two years later a friend asked me to photograph her wedding. I took the pictures to a market stall and by the end of the day I'd booked two more.
I still make albums. I've never stopped believing they're the point.
Sixteen years ago, for each of
their twenty-firsts, I made an
album. Enormous things. Every
year from kindergarten to
graduation, all the small quirks
of who they turned out to be.
You'd think three grown boys
wouldn't care much about that.
They did. So did everyone else
in the room — I watched
people turn the pages for a long time, go quiet, and then say it out loud. I wish I had this.
[ the albums ]
my very own joshua tree engagement album
There wasn't a grand beginning. No momen
t at somebody else's wedding where I picked
up a camera and the heavens opened.
There were boys. Three of my own, and a
week that went footy, touch footy, cricket,
hockey, repeat. photographed all of it — not
just mine, everyone's. At the end of each
season I'd hand the other parents pictures of
their kid mid-air, mid-tackle, mid-something, and
watch their faces do a particular thing.
I was obsessed with freezing it. This was before social media, which I still think was the best part — those moments were ours. Nobody else's.
Two years later a friend asked me to photograph her wedding. I took the pictures to a market stall and by the end of the day I'd booked two more.
I still make albums. I've never stopped believing they're the point.
[ these days ]
Raising them is the thing I'm proudest of and will be until the day I die. Photography was never instead of that. It was how I held onto it.
Three sons of my own, six between us. For years that meant shoes everywhere, noise everywhere, and a refrigerator capable of swallowing an entire grocery shop with no visible evidence I'd been to one.
And solitude — quite a lot of it. Which seems an odd admission from someone who photographs weddings. On the day I'm entirely there. Then I go home and say very little for a while. I think that's how I keep loving this. You have to leave enough room inside yourself to notice things.
ABIA Qld Wedding Photographer of the Year.
I'm also fairly terrible at social media. Apparently I'm meant to photograph something beautiful and immediately show the internet. I don't always want to.
Not everything beautiful needs an audience. Some things are allowed to simply become memories.
[ how i see it ]
Perfect is easy to admire and much harder to
You can own an extraordinarily expensive camera and still have nothing whatsoever to say with it.It begins before the camera comes up — a small internal pull that says wait, there, don't miss that. A hand resting somewhere without thought. Someone looking across a room when they think nobody's watching. Wind catching a dress. Your father's face changing for half a second.
Most people walk straight past those. My job is to notice them, and then not interfere too much.
feel
I lose all dignity at golden hour (sorry, not sorry hahah!
The light drops, everything turns ridiculous, and I squeal. Out loud. In front of you, your friends, your grandmother. Fourteen years and I've made no measurable progress, so at this point it should probably be listed among the inclusions.
