A moving, breathing, laughing, crying, cursing, smiling, human: my journey in photography.

A little over 12 years ago when I began sharing photos online, social media still felt like a local hangout spot, a place you shared with your friends and relatives splattered with a handful of faraway celebrities. I still remember the exciting feeling of slapping on a colorful filter, adding a caption (probably some line from one of my favorite Blink 182 songs, followed by a waterfall of hashtags that meant absolutely nothing to me) and pressing "share". A couple hours would pass and when I checked again most of my friends had liked and commented, making me feel seen and loved.

A decade later, I can't tell you how many times I've stopped myself from sharing something on Instagram from the fear of it getting lost in tidal waves of "content" and, honestly, feeling like I failed. With curiosity, I observe how the nagging feeling of not being interesting or "trendy" enough has snuck into my subconscious.

This got me thinking about why I even began taking photos in the first place.

Where exactly was this feeling born from?

Photo taken by Felix S., 2015

The day I decided to purchase that beloved Pentax K1000, it was very much thanks to the encouragement of Félix Salazar, a wonderful human, photographer and creative who had become one of the most influential people in my life by the time I was 17. Together, we explored the world of portraiture, searching each others faces and expressions, the way our bodies moved in front of the lens became a fascinating study of honesty and connection.

Left: Photo field trips with the Pentax and Felix's Nikon, 2014

Middle: A photo of a photo, by Felix, 2014

Right: Digital portraits of each other, 2015

I still remember the feeling of getting my film scans back, each time it felt like Christmas morning. Quickly learning from our mistakes (and the irreversible effects of humidity on film) we went through as many rolls as we could afford (which to be fair, weren't that many, but each one counted).

Black and white film from a trip to Prusia, 2015

Felix, with love.

Some years later we would lose Felix, but his legacy, his inspiration and the way he would make everyone he met feel so seen still remains very much alive. So much of who I am as an artist is because he believed in me, and not a day goes by where he doesn't cross my mind.

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My first trip to NYC in 2015 opened my mind to a new world of possibilities: film was more easy accesible, expedited scans were done overnight and I didn't feel like I had broken bank every time I ran through a roll. I was overstimulated with new concrete landscapes around every corner, surrounded by fascinating faces and I found I was blooming into a new version of myself. I didn't know it then, but this chapter of my life would refine my style and give me the confidence to pursue a creative career.

Self portrait in my Brooklyn bedroom - double exposure on film, 2017

Self portraits helped me heal my relationship with self. I struggled with my appearance through my teenage years and early twenties, and even though the mirror felt like a quiet enemy, it was through this new found curiosity that I began to make peace with what I saw in those images. I was more than a face, more than a body, I was a moving, breathing, laughing, crying, cursing, smiling, human.

I was becoming a woman in front of my own eyes. Someone I admired.

To share who we are on social media with honesty is a challenge previous generations didn’t have to deal with, yet this reality has become a part of our lives and more and more every day we find ourselves pressured by the overwhelming amount of “content creators" and IG models who only share the pretty, the edited, the filtered.

What a powerful, political statement it is to express who we are unapologetically, to celebrate our imperfections, our curiosities, our questions and our truths.

Left: Sybil Terres, a dear friend in a botanical garden in Philadelphia.

Middle: Flowers floating on a bed of water.

Right: Dani Trigo walking through an underpass in Central Park.

All photos taken on 35mm film.

I didn't get my first digital camera until 2017, a Canon that came with a kit lens, an SD card and its own bag. Looking back on it now, the feeling that arose at that moment was pretty unique: it felt like cruising on a highway on a brand new Ferrari after so many years of driving your old trustworthy Land Cruiser through the mountains. I remember feeling its weight in my hands and turning it over and over again, nervously dreaming of the places this could take me. My Pentax quietly side eyed me from her place on my desk, curious as to how much of my time she would have to share with this new gadget.

Brianna Bell on film (left) and digital (right)

There is a process of unlearning in going from film to digital: where you used to slow down and carefully measure each shot taken with the 35mm so none would go to waste, this new digital device felt almost like cheating. In spring I would sit down in the park in front of a flower and shoot away, trying new angles, different lighting, observing it with complete concentration, and feeling it observing me back.

I still remember the first time I wrote down "Photographer" as my occupation, and the rush after landing my first paid photo gigs. To this day I hold so much love in my heart for those first customers who trusted in my vision without knowing who I was.

Something...holy?

I grew up in an agnostic household, in a Quaker school, in a catholic country. Since very little I become familiar with different spiritual practices, and was used to being around prayer and worship. Although I never fully adhered to any of these beliefs, I was always very open to taking the best from each of these experiences.

Ironically, in spite of such an early exposure to spirituality, it was looking through the lens where I felt the closest to my highest self. It was there were I felt this profound sense of belonging.

Taking photos on the streets of Williamsburg, 2018. Photo taken by my friend Britt Warner, on film.

I made a promise to myself when I moved back to Costa Rica that I would always keep photography as a kind of "dessert" or sweet treat, balancing my personal projects with the work I do with so much love for my clients.

I've gone through periods of time where it becomes my main income, and I can feel the burnout begin to creep in. As with anything, even that which we are truly passionate about can become repetitive.

Every day I explore ways to lead a creative life where I can balance so nothing wipes away the joy that looking through the lens brings me.

May this curiosity always lead the way.