Sainta Teresa, Guatemala. On a work assignment there for a week, I took advantage of some down time to walk along the dusty roads of Sainta Teresa, a small village near the ruins of Iximche. Small children would scatter in front of me as I ventured through the town - disappearing into the huts made from sticks and concrete. I would inevitabley hear giggles and high pitched squeals as I neared the "hideaways", and with camera in hand I stood and waited. I would later come to know this little girl by the name of Daisy. She shyly peered out from behind the window of her room, so curious and timid. We soon became friends.
A week later, I came back to the village with prints of the photos I had taken of the villagers throughout the week. Such a thing is almost unheard of in such remote mountain villages, and it was a thrill for me to show the photos to Daisy, who would then lead me to the home where I could find the child I'd photographed. Old women laughed with delight as they saw pictures of themselves - their entire faces crinkling up with their smiles. It was in that moment that I truly realized the power, and value, of photography. If I could, I would fly often to 3rd world countries around the world with a color photo printer in hand, photographing familes and printing off the images for them to hang on their mud walls.
Our 1st world desires aren't so different. We love photography for the precious moments it captures, and for the feelings of love and remembrance the images envoke. Wether on a concrete wall in Guatemala or over a fireplace in Salt Lake City, UT, the value is the same.
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