I grew up with very few photos of myself. The story goes that when I was a baby, apple juice spilled in the diaper bag, the camera was ruined, and never replaced. My siblings have stacks of images. I have only a handful. That absence planted a longing in me that never left.
DANI PADGETT
In high school, during those early years of figuring out who I was and how I fit into the world, I found my dad’s old Pentax. I began carrying it everywhere. The camera became a way of seeing—of noticing the world more closely and discovering myself through the act of documenting. Later it traveled with me across thirteen countries during my year abroad in Italy—no iPhone, no digital camera, just me and my Pentax.
At the same time, I grew up with stories of people I never met—my grandmother, who passed three years before I was born, and my aunt, who died tragically young. My grandfather and parents spoke of them with such love that I always felt I was missing out on knowing two incredible women. That sense of absence, paired with the tenderness of inherited stories, made me a collector. A keeper of artifacts.
I see my role as a quiet witness—moving in and out like a friend with a camera, catching the laughter, tears, and fleeting moments that tell the real story of your day.
There are times I’ll step in, guiding you into the most flattering light, framing a shot just right, or giving direction during family portraits and couple photos.
On a wedding day, my goal is to never disrupt the natural rhythm or emotions as they unfold. Capturing the honest, unscripted moments that make your wedding uniquely yours.
Digitizing my grandfather’s vast archive of photos and films has become a joy beyond measure. Each frame feels like unearthing treasure. For me, archives are not just records of what happened—they are proof of love, vessels of memory, and bridges that stretch across generations.
