The old Cadillac broke down on I-80. I was on my way to a photography convention in Reno, Nevada. It was my first one and the magazine asked me to speak about my work. I have been a photographer for the New York Times for 20 years, and now my pictures have received so much praise that I’ve somehow won awards.

I’ve enjoyed pictures all my life. When I was a little boy, I would buy used cameras from garage sales and make the most of them. My mom would research them and locate the film. Luckily, Mom has worked as a librarian all her life. She had access to the world at her fingertips in the library, which became my home away from home.

We found a camera shop in the city, just a 20-minute drive away. She would take me there, and I’d save my birthday and holiday money for my film. We grew a relationship with the store owner, Matty. He was passionate about cameras, fixing them, and discussing how they operated. His eyes lit up when we walked into his shop: someone to teach, some fresh mind to mold.

On a given day, walking into that old red door with the bell on it, Mom and I would spend at least an hour as Matty would explain how my newfound camera functioned, the film type, and even unique composition shots for me to try when going out to snap new photos that day. Mom would always stop by the diner on the way home for thick strawberry milkshakes and a plate of crispy fries. I’d tell her about my school days and projects, mostly though I would tell her about all the people, places, and things I wanted to take pictures of within the following day, week, or month.

As I grew and camera technology advanced, I quickly rose to modern challenges with software, lenses, etc. I graduated high school with 15 cameras and a scholarship to Minnesota University, where I pursued a photography degree. 

I did well and spent most of my spare time snapping photos and learning as much as possible. Mom was so proud. My senior year professor was so impressed with my work that he hooked me up with a job at the local paper. From there, I had many jobs in magazines, newspapers, and independent work that eventually led me here to the New York Times.

I was able to travel around the country and around the world, visiting historical and breathtaking places while creating art with my bag full of lenses. Looking back at my humble beginnings, I feel grateful.

I’m not one for public speaking, let alone standing in a room full of people saying words they may or may not remember. I’m solitary, just me and the camera. That’s how I like to operate. My boss convinced me that speaking at this conference will inspire others. Hell, maybe there might be a young person, just like I was searching for inspiration. Inspiration is the only reason worthwhile and why I eventually agreed to talk about my work, my process, and my thoughts. If there's anything I can talk about, it's my life's work.

The last rest stop posting I saw was 10 miles back, an impossibly long walk with only one canteen of water. I could go north and hope that there is a gas station nearby. I exited the car and set up my tripod to mount my camera with a telephoto lens. I squint into the viewfinder with one eye as the dry breeze wisps clouds of sand around my feet. I rotate the mount and myself counterclockwise, scanning the horizon for signs of life.

A mile out through the sand stood a building that looked like someone's home. It was old and tattered, and the paint clung to the brick. An older Honda was parked in front. Maybe someone was there or still lived there. It was the only structure I found; the rest was a sea of rolling sands.

I packed my camera and a few lenses in my carry bag and my green canteen slung over my shoulder, sloshing with every step. I put on my hat and my golden-tinted aviators to block the sunrays as best as possible. I smothered my skin in sunscreen before packing the car, but at this point, it must have sweated off. Shielding my face and eyes was the best I could do to avoid a severe sunburn.

After twenty minutes of dredging through the sifting sand, I reach the home. The door has a screen attached to it with tattered holes at the bottom, several shapes and sizes, and the screen is unlatched from the outside. Potted plants filled with tiny grains line the porch, and bright silver wind chimesTg dance in the gentle breeze, singing a song of winding peace.

After calling out through the closed door, I heard no sound coming from inside. The windows were lined with retractable blinds, and there was no way to peer inside. I walked around to the back, and a doorframe appeared, but there was no door.

The room was filled with sand, with footprints leading to the kitchen. A bedroom door was set ajar, unmovable by the dune behind it. The walls were caked with dry clay, and the once-blue wallpaper faded into grey. My mind started filling with questions. Who lived here? How long had it been abandoned? How old was the structure? If there are prints in front of me, who was here? And when?

The rich hues of yellow and orange gleamed as the heated rays shined through the doorless wooden frame. I positioned my tripod to face the opening. Footprints led out from the door, and dessert brush plants painted the backdrop. The air was quiet, and the setting reminded me of an entrancing emptiness. I snapped some photos as I thought of my mother and Matty at the camera store. Both have long passed, and this room took me back to a conversation we once had on a Tuesday afternoon after school.

“Johnny, don’t worry about the camera type really. They all have their special purpose, and I can show you how and when to use them. But there is one thing you have to remember above all. The camera is the tool you use to capture the art, but the essence of the moment, the soul of the image, is what you dictate. The beautiful images, over time, were curated with a purpose. An image is a message, poetry, and what it is that you want the viewer not just to see but feel. The most beautiful images in life come from the most simple things and remind us of times that were meaningful. You have that in a picture; it will change the world.”

After returning to my car that day, I hitchhiked to the nearest gas station and returned to the road. I went to the convention and spoke of my work, and I took the time to mention Matty and his advice to me at the end. I got a round of applause, and a smile filled my face. 

Later, I submitted my photos of the sand-filled home to the magazine. The photos so moved the editor that he decided to have a several-page spread and the cover of the issue printed with one of the photographs. They included a written article about my life's passion and my origin story, which is the story of two people who have always believed in me, conversing in a camera repair shop.