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The Silent Rooms: A Photographer’s Journey Through Grief and Memory

In early 2018, after an extensive 18-hour flight, I received a call from Steve Hartman, who proposed a profound project: capturing the untouched bedrooms of children lost to school shootings. The idea was heavy, and even after six years, it remains a challenge to encapsulate in a simple explanation. This undertaking has proven to be the most emotionally taxing work I have encountered in my career.

Despite knowing the emotional weight, I instantly agreed to join Steve, a friend for nearly 25 years. I was surprised by my own readiness, even though I anticipated the difficulty in securing consent from the families affected by these tragedies. The thought of collaborating with Steve on such a vital subject was too important to refuse.

As I made my way to Parkland, Florida, I grappled with the reality of going alone. My profession primarily involves commercial photography focused on people and pets, and now I was faced with the unique challenge of portraying the absence of a child due to heart-wrenching circumstances.

How, then, do you create a portrait of a child who no longer exists?

Each child’s room I entered was drenched in emotion, resembling a sacred space that still held the essence of their inhabitants. It felt as though the children had simply stepped out for the day, expected to return at any moment. I aspired to encapsulate that very feeling in my imagery.

Children’s bedrooms are often their personal sanctuaries, and the ones I photographed were no different. I meticulously examined every corner, capturing details without disturbing a thing. Items like hair ties draped over doorknobs, opened toothpaste tubes, and crumpled tickets revealed snapshots of their lives and personalities.

However, beyond the creative aspects, I confronted an emotional struggle. Over the span of six years, visits with multiple families across the nation opened me up to a profound sense of loss. Each notification from Steve about another family weighed heavily on me; it meant yet another child had been taken from their loved ones.

It is staggering to consider that the tragic loss of children in schools is an ongoing reality in our society. The incomprehensibility of it all left me grappling with fear and empathy. The night before each family visit, sleep was elusive. I recognized this anxiety was not merely a projection; it stemmed from a place of deep compassion and sorrow.

Reflecting in my notes during a flight in 2018, I documented the burden ahead of me: this was not only a professional challenge; it was a deeply personal one. I wrote of my fears—particularly for my own child, Rose—and the unnerving scenarios I imagined. The emotional weight seemed insurmountable, leaving me hiding my tears in the shadows of the cabin.

Just days after my initial contemplation, I was standing in Alyssa Alhadeff’s bedroom. At just 14, Alyssa walked out of that room only to be lost in the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shooting. Meeting a family friend upon arrival compounded my nervousness. The presence of Alyssa’s best friend lingered in the air, highlighted by a shared photo visible on the table.

My notes from that day spoke of entering a “beautiful teenager’s messy room” where I carefully observed without interrupting its stillness. The gravity of the moment filled my chest with a profound awareness of the sanctity of the space I was in. I felt small and reverent as I navigated through memories, documenting the tension of joy and grief intertwined within those walls.

Later, I moved to photograph Carmen Schentrup’s room. Carmen, tragically killed at 16, left behind a surviving younger sister who was also present during the horrific incident. As I met her parents, April and Phillip, the weight of the moment was almost paralyzing. I grappled with the urge to express my condolences without sounding insincere. My conversations with Steve served as reminders to remain genuine in such devastating circumstances.

April welcomed me, and I worked swiftly through the emotional undertaking, feeling the weight of their pain as we collectively tried to hold ourselves together in the moment. I documented how fragile life truly is, a sentiment that lingered long after our encounter.

Having only spent 16 hours in Florida, I wrapped up the first phase of the project. While I recognized the significance of our work, I dreaded the thought of receiving the next call from Steve about another family. I was uncertain about the timeline, which could stretch for years or arrive abruptly the next day.

Recently, we concluded the project alongside a documentary crew. While I have yet to see the final product, I anticipate that it will be a departure from typical reporting—reflecting the emotional complexity we both faced throughout our journey.

I recall a poignant evening in August, leaving a family’s house burdened by sadness, only to encounter a bustling ice cream shop moments later filled with families enjoying carefree moments together. The stark contrast was a harsh reminder of the duality of existence, highlighting the fragility of joy amidst unspeakable sorrow.

Through this project, I hope we can spark a conversation leading to transformative change. The ultimate hope is that despite the media attention waning, the stories and realities of these families persist, as they navigate an unthinkable nightmare day after day.

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