I despise the word “videographer”. I have used it for many years because it’s a term people understand, though I frequently get asked how the photography business is going.
The root of my distaste, I think, is simply that it sounds technical. Clinical. And I don’t think of myself as a technician. I don’t particularly care for the machine, the hardware, the software, the codec, the ergonomics, the lens, the camera as a whole. What I do care about is what it can do for me. What I can do with it. Its usefulness to me is entirely tied to the moment in front of me, and its ability to hold onto it.
The term “filmmaker” carries a loftiness that I’ve always shied away from. To call oneself a filmmaker would be tantamount to standing next to Paul Thomas Anderson or Steven Spielberg and saying “we are equals.” A foolish notion, both in concept and actuality, but it’s a notion I live with. As if by saying “filmmaker” I’d have to whip out one of my backyard wedding films shot against the Indiana cornfields and set it beside Saving Private Ryan, ready to prove they’re on par with each other. Welcome to my mind.
The problem is I can’t even compare my work to other “videographers” I see whose wedding films look like they belong next to Saving Private Ryan.
Or, you know… another movie with less violence and killing. In the Mood for Love?
What I’m trying to say is: I’m not a videographer in the sense of being a cinematographer who composes the most beautiful shot the world has ever seen.
“Stand over there and walk through the cornfields.”
“Stare off into the distance.”
“Look at the camera like you want to kill it.”
Editorial. Vogue. Drama.
What I am is a videographer, a filmmaker, a storyteller—whatever term you want to use—who cares less about the perfect shot and more about the perfect feeling. I don’t want to create an artifact of your wedding day that looks good on paper but feels like something else, or someone else. I want to capture what can’t always be seen with the eye but can always be felt in the heart, if I may be so poetic. The warmth of nostalgia, the weight of a first look, the laughter that only makes sense in that one room on that one day.
I’ve never been interested in making something bigger or “better” than the moment itself. Because what could be better than this? Your life, your day, your wedding. It exists in a single instant in the history of the world, never to be repeated. And the best part is: it’s real. What could be more meaningful than that?
So if a couple asks me to describe what I do, the best way I know to answer is this:
I’m not here to stage your day. I’m here to notice it, honor it, and preserve it.
To be a witness to your day.
Most recent wedding: