The other day I was shooting around the market in Whitechapel, and my energy was off. It was my first day out shooting in a while, and I just couldn’t get into the flow — couldn’t make any good images. I started to head home when I felt someone watching me. This dude began to follow me for about 20 minutes, smiling like a creep every time I turned around — until he finally cornered me under a bridge (I refused to NOT walk under the bridge). I sprinted into a cafe a couple minutes down the road and waited there for awhile until I calmed down. The woman working in the cafe helped me chill out and then told me that I shouldn’t be walking around with my camera around my neck.
I was angry. It wasn’t the first time it had happened to me. It makes me jealous of male photographers, who don’t have to think about that kind of stuff — who can just go out and shoot and not worry about anything but the photograph. Each time this kind of shit happens, I carry a little more weight on my shoulders — and the camera strap should be enough.
On another vibe, being a woman brings sensitivity to my images. I find myself connecting more often with female subjects rather than male ones. I see myself in young women falling in love and grandmothers with a full face of make up. It’s sisterhood. It’s a powerful feeling.