For My Dad, Who Taught Me to See

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I’ve been involved with photography for most of my life. I picked up a camera when I was about 15 years old, and now, at 59, it’s still a big part of who I am. The tools have changed dramatically over the decades, but the feeling I get from a great photograph—and from making a beautiful print—has never really gone away.

Some of my earliest memories date back even further, to the mid-1970s, when I would watch my dad work in his darkroom. I can still picture it clearly: the dim red safelight, trays lined up with chemicals, and the quiet patience it took to do things right. I remember standing there as an image slowly appeared on a blank sheet of paper, as if by magic. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the process, but I knew it mattered. That was also the era in which Farrah Fawcett’s most iconic photographs were created.

Her images came from that same analog world—film cameras, negatives, contact sheets, and darkrooms like my dad’s. Skilled photographers and printers shaped each image by hand, making careful decisions about contrast, exposure, and tone. Every print was a crafted object, not just a reproduction.

When I later began printing my own work, I followed that same path: film, enlargers, and chemicals. Hours spent in the darkroom taught patience and respect for the image. You learned quickly that every choice mattered, because there was no instant preview and no undo button. Today, my process looks very different.

I now use an Epson P900 archival inkjet printer, pigment-based inks, and high-quality Red River archival papers designed to last for decades. There’s no darkroom, no chemical smell, and no waiting for prints to dry on a line. But what hasn’t changed is the care that goes into each print. Modern printing still requires judgment—color balance, tonal range, paper choice—and a commitment to doing justice to the original photograph.

Some people see modern printing as less “authentic” than darkroom work. I see it as the next chapter. These archival prints are incredibly stable and consistent, allowing Farrah’s images to be shared and preserved in ways that weren’t possible decades ago. The technology has evolved, but the intention remains the same: to honor the photograph and the person in it.

When I give away prints through this site and my Facebook page, I often think about that long journey—from watching my dad in his darkroom in the 1970s, to learning photography as a teenager, to printing images today. My dad is no longer here, but those early moments remain some of the best times I return to most often. In a quiet way, every print I make still feels connected to him.
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Farrah’s photographs endure because they capture something timeless. Whether they were first printed under an enlarger decades ago or produced today with archival inks, they still carry the same spirit, beauty, and presence. I’m grateful to play a small part in helping keep that legacy alive—one print at a time.