Somewhere in the attic there’s a picture of me standing in front of a hotel in Topeka, Kansas. I haven’t seen it for years, but like any good photograph, I remember it clearly. Now, I can’t be sure, but I must have been doing something important because I was about 17 years old, dressed nicely (an oddity, I assure you), clutching important looking papers and strapping a big, fancy camera on my shoulder. A young photographer, I was probably covering some breaking high school news story. The camera never lies, so I know it’s true.

I love to tell the story about how my dad gave me that old Pentax camera for Christmas. If you carry a camera for a living, the “why did you get into photography” question arises as frequently as the one about the wedding-day weather. So, I get it, and I enjoy playing along. Warmly, I convey the nostalgic scene: an eager kid sitting impatiently in a cinnamon-tea-scented room with a big tree and lots of shiny presents — only one of which was the big one. After tossing aside the distractions — the socks, shirts, and books — I opened the final package … the one I fully expected to contain a BB gun or remote controlled car. Instead, when I tore through the meticulously folded foil wrapping paper, I discovered something completely unexpected — a beautiful hunk of brushed silver metal and ground glass. Sadly, not a toy Corvette. Instead, the box revealed a fancy 35mm camera just like dad’s. Lying flat on the bottom of the box, a vintage copy of Life Magazine. The edition: Larry Burrows’ famous 1965 piece called “One Ride with Yankee Papa 13.”

Dad used to say that the “truth lies somewhere in the picture, but it isn’t necessarily the picture.” This much is true. I never quite understood the axiom until I held a camera for the first time. A camera isn’t just a tool after all. In the right hands, it’s more powerful than any weapon because it can often act as the only harbinger between truth and fiction — our memories might be fuzzy, our intentions dim, but film never lies. It can’t tell the entire truth, either. Wars have ended through the lens of a camera. Wars have started over them, too. At that age, I couldn’t fully appreciate the concept. But I sensed that maybe, at 17, I really could change the world with something other than my boyish dreams.

So with my newly inspired passion, I carried my fancy Pentax to school and began photographing those life-changing stories — the ones about school lunch travesties and student parking infringements. Those breaking bits would surely win me my first Pulitzer. The high school newspaper would quickly become my New York Times. And someday my name would be synonymous as the next Larry Burrows of wedding photography.

So the story goes …

A student of photography, dad frequently shared bedtime stories about the great photographers the way that some fathers tell their boys stories about Lou Gehrig or Ted Williams. Remember the famous image of two entwined French lovers? Robert Doisneau shot that. At some time in your life, you’ve probably also seen the classic picture of two embracing strangers — a navy seaman and a nurse — kissing in Times Square following VJ Day. Alfred Eisenstadt was in the right place, right time. I knew this stuff before I could fill out a box score. That much is also true. But I have to admit something key to the story … a bit of truth completing the message that wouldn’t otherwise be as enticing to young photographers.

Back to me.

That picture, the one of me standing in front of the hotel? Maybe the camera lied … just a little. I actually remember exactly why I was standing in front of the hotel, giddy and not at all dreaming of Larry Burrows. I was trying to impress a girl. Don’t lie, you’ve all done worse to impress someone.

By chance, the school yearbook sponsor saw my camera as I was walking down the hall. Complete strangers, she asked me if I wanted to compete in a state journalism competition. In case you’re wondering: all of the other photographers were busy that day. No, I wasn’t any good. And yes, I was the absolute last-ditch, eleventh-hour, final-gasp, bottom-of-the-barrel choice to represent my school. But, by chance, I remembered that a girl I liked — a brilliant writer in her own right — would be competing in a writing category. Without a thought, I decided to chase two dreams at once. Would my camera be enough to impress her? Would my crusty, blue-collar wit ultimately offend her ivy league sensibilities? I only know that if I didn’t face the challenge, I would never know. Changing the world, then, was still a viable option. And although I might have been a poor excuse as Larry Burrows’ new replacement, I learned a valuable lesson about the connection between the story and the image — that the two are intertwined, personal, and potentially game-changing. I never lost a single sense, feeling, or twinge of anxiety from that day. Encapsulated in a little piece of photo paper — a single pivotal moment in time.

Like a bride and groom with the perfect series of wedding photographs, we develop a uniquely passionate connection — a sensory recording — at the precise moment the shutter traps its final image onto a few scrapes of silver emulsion. And that connection is permanent. But what is it? That’s the big question, after all. What makes a photograph special? The connection could be anything, really — a cool breeze, the way her hair drifted into his face during the shot, a simple, transparent warmth between lovers, a stolen laugh, or just the right moment.

For some, the connection might simply be that the crackpot idea some kid hatched to impress a girl – who was completely out of his league — was something he would remember clearly, 25 years later. I think dad (and maybe even Larry Burrows) would have been proud …