I love this picture. I think it's my favorite from the entire session we did for Juliette's dad. I love it for a lot of reasons. I love it for technical reasons: the lighting, the textures, the selective focus. I love it because it looks like what Jason looks like right now. And not just the way his features look, but his personality, too—the way he's fiddling with his shirt, belying the calm, almost tired look on his face. It's a truthful picture in many ways.

But it's funny how pictures can lie, even when they're telling another kind of truth. When I look at this picture, it looks like a quiet moment. There's a serenity to it, a peacefulness. It's in the gesture and the light, the way darkness brushes over half his face. And that's not what that shoot was actually like.

In reality, Jason had his normal morning energy. He was playful and silly, full of smiles and constantly moving, even when he was sitting still. In order to keep him engaged enough to actually get his picture I had to wheedle and bribe and tickle and make faces.

And yet, it's funny how pictures can tell the truth, even when they're lying. Because, as I said, the way he looks in this picture, that's him, too. It may not have been him on that morning, but it is in him, and for the split-second of this photograph, that's what he showed me.

All this, and more, is why I love photography. And parenting.

The shutter on my medium format camera (a Bronica ETRS) sticks sometimes. Fortunately, there's a little indicator light in the viewfinder that blinks when the shutter has properly actuated, and when it doesn't blink I just flip the double exposure switch and reshoot the same frame. Unfortunately, when I don't see the blinking light I'm never sure whether it didn't actually blink or if I just missed it. So I end up with a lot of unintentional double (or triple or quadruple) exposures. This one just happened to work out well.

This weekend, Juliette and I bribed Jason to take some nice pictures for his Aba (that's what we call Juliette's dad). It may not be obvious from this shot, but he was actually very cooperative.

From a couple of weeks ago, picking up a to-go order at a Thai restaurant.

One of these days I'd like to try my hand at printmaking. I could probably handle developing my own negs even now—it doesn't take much space or money, and I have done it before, even if it was over ten years ago at this point. But to make prints you need an enlarger, and a light-tight room big enough to hold it and the developing trays. Not something that's really in reach right now. It's nice to dream, though.

Jason can be a pretty good listener when he wants to be. When we're at an Easter party at our friends' house and it's time to learn how to do a new craft, he's all ears. When it's time for him to go to sleep, not so much.

This is what happens when Jason is bored while we're waiting for a table at a restaurant and he sees me take out the camera. Fortunately, Eva didn't mind at all.

"You know, one thing that I don't love about a lot of the pictures you've been taking of Eva is that she's got her pacifier in her mouth in almost every one."

"Well, yeah. She has it in her mouth in the pictures because that's what she looks like right now. She just has it in most of the time."

"Maybe we need to work on that."

"Yeah, I guess we do."

I met Dante in the summer of 2000 when I was working at my future father-in-law's restaurant. I was a few weeks away from turning 21 and Juliette's dad had given me a job waiting tables for the summer, a job I wasn't really qualified for and which I probably didn't deserve. Dante was one of the other waiters on the staff and, like me, he mostly worked lunch shifts so I got to spend a lot of time with him that summer. From the moment I met him, he was always friendly and warm toward me, even though I was a pretty terrible waiter. He was patient and kind, and he helped me a lot. Today I was saddened to learn that he died suddenly and unexpectedly this morning—of a heart attack, I'm told.

I can't help but regret the fact that I didn't know him better. We worked together for a summer, and in the years since we always took a couple of minutes to catch up whenever I came back to the restaurant for a visit with the family. There was a lot I didn't know about him. And yet, looking back, there was a lot I did know. I know he was hard-working, and that he cared about his work and took pride in doing it well. Since that summer we worked together he became a manager at the restaurant, and everyone I've ever talked to about him has loved him. I know that he was easy-going, quick with a smile, a genuinely nice person. I know that he loved his family. I know he had a bit of playfulness to him—I watched him spin a serving tray on one fingertip, laughing, one afternoon after the lunch rush was over. I know he will be missed, by me and many others.

I wish I could remember clearly the last time I saw him—but then, it wasn't remarkable at the time, just another visit home, another meal at the family restaurant. It's not as though this was something any of us saw coming; he wasn't even that much older than I am. So many of the moments in our lives that turn out to be important go unnoticed. I guess that's just the way of things.

My heart goes out to Dante's wife and children. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a father and husband this way, so completely out of the blue. It's a tragedy, and we are all the worse for his loss.

Goodbye, Dante. I'm glad I had the chance to know you.

Office life is so very, very stimulating.

Playing in that Exersaucer is hard work—sometimes you need to take a little break and put your head down.