In early 2018, I was getting off an 18-hour flight when Steve Hartman called. He had an idea: photograph the intact bedrooms of children killed in school shootings.
It’s a headful. And six years later I still don’t have an elevator pitch for the project – but then I don’t talk about this project very often. It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever worked on.
When Steve, my friend of about 25 years, asked me if I wanted to be involved, I said yes without hesitation – even though I didn’t think we would get families to agree. There is no way I would have said no to working with him in this area.
Emotionally, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through it. Within a few months I was on my way to Parkland, Florida. Only. I’m not sure I realized I would be on my own.
But here I was. An on-location commercial photographer focusing on people and pets to create compelling, honest, structural and connecting moments for major brands, according to my professional LinkedIn profile, for a project where no one is there to take photos – for the boldest of reasons.
How do you make a portrait of a child who is not there?
In each of these nurseries – the most sacred place for these families – there was a sense that the child had just been there and would be right back. It was as if they had just left their room when they went to school in the morning and came back in the afternoon.
I wanted to capture that essence.
Most children’s rooms are their own special places, and this was no different. I looked everywhere, without touching anything. I photographed in trash cans, under beds, behind desks. Their personalities came through in the smallest details – hair ties on a doorknob, a tube of toothpaste with the cap missing, a torn ticket to a school event – giving me a glimpse of who they were.
But in addition to that creative challenge, there was also an emotional challenge. Over the course of more than six years, we have visited many families across the country. The parents I spoke to seemed grateful that I was there. But every time I got a call or text from Steve about a new family, my heart sank.
It meant that another family had lost a child.
I find it incomprehensible that killing children at school is even a problem. There’s no point. It’s impossible to process. I didn’t sleep the night before each family visit. And I knew I wouldn’t participate in the project. It’s not a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s nerves. And empathy. And sadness. And fear.
In my notes from the beginning of the project, in 2018, as I wrote in seat 6H on the flight back from Nairobi, I reflected on the emotional task ahead.
“This is going to be one of the hardest things ever for me emotionally, and not just work related. As I read my research papers, I’m visibly emotional,” I wrote, noting that I was grateful that the dark cabin didn’t let the other passengers in. to see.
The prospect brought to the forefront my own fears, both for myself – “I can’t help but think of Rose,” my daughter, “and what ifs.” about and for meeting the families in the project: “When I read about the plight of April & Phillip and Lori, I somehow, for some reason, put myself in their emotional position, even though that’s impossible. I have no idea, it’s beyond comprehension. I don’t know what I’m going to say to them, I’m incredibly scared.’
But just a few days later, I photographed the first assignment for the project: Alyssa Alhadeff’s room. She was just 14 years old when she walked out of the room to attend Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. I was shaky when I met the family friend who greeted me at the house. Her daughter was Alyssa’s best friend and there was a photo of the two girls on the table.
According to my notes: “The room was the messy room of a beautiful teenager. My emotions were controlled as usual; by hiding behind the camera. I took off my shoes before entering. My heart was pounding and echoing through my body.” Body and soul I felt as if I was in one of the most sacred and special places on earth. I was so careful not to touch anything.”
I left feeling like I was ready to explode with sadness and anger.
Later that day I photographed Carmen Schentrup’s room. Her younger sister had survived the Parkland shooting, but 16-year-old Carmen was killed during her AP Psychology class. Meeting her parents, April and Phillip, was what I feared most.
“I feel so much pain and compassion for them and I don’t want to say the wrong thing, drop clichés, etc.,” I wrote at the time. “I talked to Steve for advice. He said just be yourself. That’s all I can do. Just be myself. He was right, those three words got me through this whole project. Just be myself.”
April let me in and I worked quickly. I only met Phillip when I left. “The conversation felt like the three of us were just trying to keep it together. I can’t imagine what they are going through, my heart aches for them. This was/is such a painful project, and it will be impossible to reconcile.
“I think about how anything could happen to any of us at any time. Literal. You never know,” I wrote.
After only about 16 hours on the ground in Florida, I was done with the first part. I felt the project was a must, but I also dreaded the next call from Steve about the next family. I didn’t know when that call would come; many years later, or the next day, maybe never.
But last month we – and the documentary crew that filmed us as we worked – completed this project. Although I haven’t seen it yet, I know Steve’s piece won’t be a typical Steve Hartman segment. How could it be? I know he was going through a hard time too, and we both spent a lot of time processing this.
I remember being devastated one evening in August as I left one of the families’ homes. Within minutes I passed an ice cream parlor full of other families – seemingly carefree, full of joy and laughter. The combination, just a few minutes apart, burst my soul.
I hope that this project can somehow facilitate change – the only possible positive outcome for this I could understand. After the news cycle ends, these families will still be living with an incomprehensible nightmare.
