For the better part of a year, I thought photography was in my rearview mirror.
Life took over. My family and I moved into a new home, and I threw myself into learning everything I could about building and home repair. In today’s economy, knowing how to tackle projects yourself is invaluable—something as simple as painting your own home can save you thousands of dollars.
At the same time, life was moving forward in other ways. My wife earned an exciting promotion, my daughter immersed herself in competitive dance and musical theater, and I began working toward becoming a certified home inspector.
Photography seemed to take a back seat.
Or so I thought.
The truth is, I never stopped seeing like a photographer.
Instead of carrying my camera everywhere, I found myself studying light. I watched how highlights, shadows, and midtones shaped the landscape, wrapped around trees, and transformed the architecture of my home. I became fascinated by the way fog softened a scene, how haze changed the mood, and how a single highlight could pull your eye exactly where it needed to go.
Without realizing it, I had become a student of photography all over again.
Every observation was quietly sharpening my eye.
Then the phone rang.
The Classical Theatre of Harlem asked me to photograph their upcoming production of Othello.
I’ll admit, I was nervous.
It had been a long time since I’d taken on a project like this. Doubt crept in almost immediately. Had I been away for too long? Could I still create the kind of work I envisioned?
Then instinct took over.
I said yes.
Not because I knew exactly how everything would turn out, but because I trusted the way I had been learning to see the world.
I called my son, who has an incredible eye and is, without question, the best photography assistant I could ask for. Having him by my side gave me confidence, and together we prepared relentlessly.
For the week leading up to the shoot, photography became part of my daily routine again. I experimented with lighting setups, tested different modifiers, refined posing, and studied how light interacted with skin. My family probably got tired of becoming my practice subjects, but every frame taught me something new.
More than anything, I wasn’t just trying to create beautiful portraits.
I was trying to understand how light could help tell the story of Othello.
Then the day finally arrived.
I remember setting up the lights.
The actors walked in.
The conversations began.
The camera came to life.
And then…
I blinked.
It was over.
Weeks of preparation disappeared in what felt like a single moment.
Later that evening, sitting at my computer and scrolling through the images, I stopped.
“I can’t believe I did it.”
Not because everything was perfect, but because I realized something I hadn’t expected.
I hadn’t lost photography.
Photography had been finding me the entire time.
It had been there while I was renovating my home.
While I was learning construction.
While I was watching light move across walls and trees.
Every experience had quietly prepared me for this moment.
It’s funny how the things we spend weeks, months, or even years preparing for can be over in an instant.
But that’s the beauty of photography.
The moment disappears.
The photograph doesn’t.
Othello reminded me why I picked up a camera in the first place—not simply to make images, but to tell stories through light.
And in many ways, this project wasn’t just the beginning of another assignment.
It was the beginning of my return.
Editorial portrait of two cast members from Classical Theatre of Harlem's Othello, photographed by Shane Samuels.
Editorial portrait of an actress from Classical Theatre of Harlem's Othello, photographed by Shane Samuels.
Editorial portrait of an actor from Classical Theatre of Harlem's Othello, photographed by Shane Samuels.
Editorial portrait of an actress from Classical Theatre of Harlem's Othello, photographed by Shane Samuels.