On Identity

I was directing a photoshoot near the World Trade Center — searching for the optimal backdrop — when one of the models asked me: “So, are you mainly a photographer?”

I instantly choked; the question stunned me. And then the fact that it had stunned me stunned me some more. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had only asked me what seemed transparently obvious: I was carrying four cameras on me, after all.

It seemed like a possibility. I was literally in the middle of a photoshoot: one that I had envisioned, planned out, and directed. So why did the answer feel complicated?

I am definitely a lover of photography. I own a dozen cameras, have a bachelor’s degree in digital media, and share my photos online. In fact, I’ve been sharing my photos online since I was twelve-years-old, back when Flickr.com was cool and TikTok was just a Kesha song.

But am I mainly a photographer? The answer seemed like a definite no. Real photographers visit music festivals and fashion houses. They’ve taken dark room photography; they know the ancient practice of soaking images in chemical baths. They shoot weddings or graduations or baby showers. They wear a special lanyard to such events — a lanyard with a card that says PHOTOGRAPHER in bold letters. 

I don’t relate to any of that. I’ve never worked in editorial, I’ve never been paid for my photos. And it’s never occurred to me to claim “I’m a photographer” before all of my other interests. 

So identifying with the title feels incorrect. A costume rather than a uniform. 

Maybe this is my longstanding belief. Once, in seventh grade, I begrudgingly told my health teacher that I had no talents. Which really meant, I don’t want to stand in front of my peers and talk about myself for this dumb public speaking assignment. She scolded me, for one. And she made me do the presentation, anyway. I figured that a speech about writing would be boring and precocious: look at this nerdy girl who thinks she’s so wise. 

So I chose digital photography, which was another true love of mine. I combed through all the images I had taken from ages ten through twelve. Most of which had been ambitiously “copyrighted” by me, which was no more than an unofficial copyright symbol slapped onto the image. I don’t really remember giving the presentation. Just that I had stayed up late the night before it was due, chugging lemonade and gluing my images to a poster board. When it was done, I stood back and examined it, I think waiting for some epiphany to wash over me.

But I guess the point of this story is that even back then, photography was more of … a hobby? Something that stood second place to writing. I’m a writer, I typically think when my identity is called into question. But what makes that any more true than being (or not being) a photographer? Writers write things. Photographers take photos. Am I not doing both of those things?

I knew I had to answer the beautiful model’s question. “No,” I heard myself say. “No, I’m not mainly a photographer.” But the explanation became more complicated the more I tried to reduce it. There’s no brief way to say: I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I’m a color analyst, I’m a virtual stylist, I’m a video-essayist-slash-content-creator, I’m a blogger, I’m an English professor, and I’m a photographer without sounding like a pompous workaholic. At least that’s how I feel about rattling off these titles, anyway. 

But claiming to be a multidisciplinary artist seems too serious. Or perhaps confines me to a box I don’t want to put myself in, even if it’s meant to be a very roomy, shapeless, limitless box.

So I simplified things. “I’m a teacher. And photography is a fun hobby of mine.” I threw in some details to dress-up my reductive analysis: what I’m teaching, what I’m writing, what I want out of this photo project.

This seemed to give dimension to the 2D structure I had created — a flattened version of myself that can’t be overanalyzed. It’s practically second nature to do this in NYC. Almost everyone is trying to get somewhere else, aiming to achieve their highest aspirations. 

Likewise, I knew that this woman modeling for me was not just a model. She was an actor. Maybe a singer or a dancer, too. But all I really knew was this version.

It got me thinking about identity and the lives we carve out for ourselves. How my peers seem so sure of themselves online — practicing medicine, becoming parents, releasing music, joining law firms. 

Ironically, maybe they think this way of me. That I am sure of myself; that I can see ahead. 

I recently had a conversation with a friend who is dramatically switching career paths. “Maybe we’ve been lied to,” she said. “Maybe all those people who seem so certain about becoming nurses or school counselors or engineers? Maybe they were not certain at all. They just jumped right into it — prayed they were making the right call.”

This is sort of what my aunt said to me, once, about becoming a physical therapist. “At some point, I just had to turn off the doubts. I closed my eyes … and I got through it.”

I like the poetics of it; the eros of submitting yourself to the unknown. But to actually do it is another thing. And besides, I’m not sure what exactly to give myself over to — the writing, the teaching, the photography, the fashion, or something else entirely?

I thought that by age twenty-six, I’d know the answer. This is the age my mother was when she had me. As women, we seem to always compare ourselves to our mothers’ timelines. My mom was THIS age when THIS major life event happened. Naively, I’ve done it too. 

My mom was changing diapers at this age, trying to sort out her post-partum depression and settle into the house she and my dad had purchased. Meanwhile, today, I called my mom to let her know that Jersey Mike’s now offers chicken salad sandwiches. (This was after wasting a half hour in Five Below, debating whether to purchase a pair of $7 headphones that will surely break after one use.)

I guess I should add that after the photoshoot, some of the photos performed really well online. And it felt exciting to see my work be perceived that way — enjoyed, even if only by its broadest categories: New York, models, outfits, blue.

But since these photos aimed to capture my nostalgia for a lost era (the 2000s), it would be ironic to overlook this current era. One day, I’ll miss this period of my life. It’s bizarre to think about, even though I know it’s true and it’s always been true. I don’t know how to be bored; I don’t know how to take it slow or take things easy. 

I don’t know how to separate my anxiety about the future from my anxiety toward the present. How to not measure things by their proximity to becoming lost from what’s already been lost. I’m not a patient person, or maybe I am. I’m always heartbroken about something. I don’t know how to not romanticize things, how to stop missing them before they need to be missed. I don’t know if any of this is at all an indication that I am unwell or a largely complicated person. Or maybe a very normal person. 

I know that no one could be more nostalgic than writers and photographers, who are meticulous about perceiving everything accurately (or at least present their emotional truths). I know that I’m a pain in the ass. That I often see life as painful, but also painfully beautiful. 

Whatever I mainly end up doing, I hope I do so without ego or pride in the way. That whatever guts me can also be worked through.

That I don’t fear the future. Because it belongs to me.

Sincerely,

Kasey

(That American Girl)