The Light Between Rain and Laughter
Three chapters of Montana and JT’s celebration — a pre-wedding family dinner in upstate New York, an engagement in Hoboken, and an intimate early-October ceremony at St. Ann’s Church.
Where the Story Found Me
There are moments when a story begins long before we realize it — perhaps in a coffee shop on a quiet weekday morning, when someone notices a small poster by the counter, its edges curled slightly by steam and time.
It was in such a place that Montana first found me. She scanned the code, and a small chain of coincidences began: we came from the same world of production and image-making, knew the same people, spoke the same language of light.
When I met her, I understood at once that her story would unfold in chapters — not as one grand event, but as a sequence of days that seemed to hold hands through the seasons.
The Drowned Lands
The first chapter took us north, to a place with a name that sounded almost like a fable — The Drowned Lands.
It stood among fields that glowed with a subdued, secret brightness, as if the sun had stepped aside to let the clouds have their turn.
All day, the sky hinted at rain — a teasing, delicate threat that never fulfilled itself. It was as though the weather had made a silent pact to preserve the happiness in the air.
By evening, the warmth felt heavy and full. The family gathered under a canopy of conversation — a hum that rose and fell like the tide. Montana’s father, one of fifteen, spoke with the calm gravity of someone accustomed to being surrounded by voices. Her mother’s circle of friends resembled a constellation — their flowered dresses catching the light, their joy spilling into the air like perfume.
The cousins — nearly forty of them — moved like quicksilver, darting between tables, teasing, exchanging glances that carried the weight of shared childhoods. A live band played; people danced, but mostly they talked and hugged, unwilling to waste a single moment of togetherness.
In big families, love reveals itself through talk — through the act of telling and listening, again and again, until the night feels complete.
I photographed quietly, as if afraid to disturb what was already perfect — a family suspended between the promise of rain and the warmth of reunion.
The first drop fell only when the party was over and I was already in the car, returning back to Jersey City.
Hoboken after the rain
A couple of weeks later, in Hoboken, the forecast again spoke of storms. My children and I ran through heavy rain that blanketed the city after the long New York heat, shielding Montana and JT’s film negatives as they traveled from the lab.
We were soaked through, but the negatives were safe.
The next day, we were meant to shoot their engagement session. Montana — calm, assured, unshakably professional — said the rain would pass before we began.
And it did.
Montana seemed to hold even the weather in her hands. Her quiet certainty, her poise, reminded me of what defines a true professional: someone who can anticipate, trust the moment, and turn even rain into an ally.
By the time we met, the clouds had thinned, leaving behind the soft, silvery light that exists only after rainfall — light that makes everything appear newly washed, almost forgiven.
The pavements shone faintly. The river reflected the sky’s quiet relief. Montana and JT moved through this fragile calm as if they had been waiting for it all along.
The evening unfolded without hurry, as though the city itself wanted to linger. We photographed until the light grew gold, then blue, then gone.
I was so inspired by our shoot that my accent thickened, my English faltered, and I felt again the joy of working with someone who moves through the world like a force of nature.
The Church
Early October arrived like the last days of summer — hot, bright, and luminous.
I walked through Hoboken in the heat, enjoying the light, and while waiting for the doors to open, I sat on the church steps. There, beside me, lay one small lost shoe — the kind that would fit a four-year-old boy.
I wondered if it was a sign for Montana and JT — perhaps a promise of their firstborn. But that would be another chapter, written later.
Inside St. Ann’s Church, the ceremony unfolded in quiet warmth. It was intimate — the kind of gathering that feels as though it has always existed.
The light moved gently along the pews and lingered on Montana’s fitted, patterned dress, tracing its lines as if reading a story written in fabric.
People spoke in low voices. Laughter appeared too, restrained but full — like the light that filters through stained glass, reshaping itself without losing its color.
It was hard to say goodbye to this family. Their trust, their warmth, the way they moved together like an intricate editorial set — it reminded me why I treasure the few weddings I accept.
I do not take many; only the special ones, like Montana and JT’s.
I felt honored to document these happy chapters, and I felt again the subtle ache of missing the teamwork and intensity of a big production.
The Film Cameras
Among Montana’s family, I noticed black Nikon film cameras — the solid, patient kind that have witnessed decades of lives. Montana’s mother still works in photography herself.
The cameras appeared almost ceremonially, passed between hands, handled with care. It made sense; this was a family that trusted memory.
Later, I found myself searching for an old Nikkormat with a 28mm lens. I had always overlooked Nikons, but this time I want to hold something that carries the same quiet weight — a machine that requires patience, that rewards attention.
Because what lingered after those days wasn’t a single image or gesture, but the rhythm of their gatherings — the hum of talk, the light that waited behind clouds, the rain that never came.
And perhaps that is how happiness often arrives — in the pauses between storms, when the world holds its breath, and everyone you love is still within reach.
