I’m Anastasia. I take pictures. I started taking them because of the role they play in my life – remembering my mother, exploring the world, documenting my love story, welcoming my babies and celebrating their milestones. Now, I have the most incredible job of helping others do the same.
I often go missing at dinner parties, only to be found much later lost in the photographs lining a staircase or inventing stories to go with the family photo wall. It’s a habit I learned early on. When I was little I spent a lot of time with my two Nanas. Nana number one loved her dogs and let me make mud pies at the river near her house. Nana number two loved photos; they lined her walls and shelves – snapshots of her kids and grandbabies and, best of all, photos of my mom. I used to stand in the hallway imagining the stories that surrounded them. Some I was old enough to remember, and others I had to make up. Sometimes one of my aunts would come by and tell me this or that about one of the photos.
Sometimes I liked the stories in my head more. There was one photo of my Mom that I loved the most. Resting her face on one hand and smiling, she just looked so beautiful and carefree and alive. It took me years to ask my Nana if I could have that photo. And now, almost 30 years after my Mom died, her photo sits on my family wall and my own kids ask questions about her. And, they ask about my handsome Dad in the photo that sits next to it – the one where he’s standing on the river after the flood. He’s holding a coffee mug and wearing this amazing sweater. Just looking at it, I can smell him…dirt and coffee. I love that photo. I wish he still had that sweater.