This summer, I walked into McKinley Lakeside High School with cameras, a lesson plan, and six weeks to teach the fundamentals of manual digital photography.

Shutter speed, aperture, ISO, composition, the rule of thirds, how to approach a subject, how to communicate with a client, how to understand light, and how to make decisions inside of a frame instead of simply pointing a camera and pressing the shutter.

That was the assignment. At least, that’s what I thought the assignment was.

I also wanted the students to understand that a camera could become more than something used to take pictures. In the right hands, it could become a business, a profession, a passport into rooms you haven’t entered yet, a reason to meet someone you otherwise may have never met, a way to document your community, a way to tell somebody else’s story, and sometimes, a way to tell your own.

A few students gravitated toward photography more than others. You know who you are. You stayed curious. You asked questions.

What surprised me was that eventually the questions weren’t always about shutter speed or ISO. You started asking about me. How did I get here? Why photography? How do I make money with a camera? What has photography allowed me to experience? What did I do before this? What does it really look like to build a life doing something creative?

Underneath some of those questions, I heard another question: What could this camera do for me?

There were moments during those six weeks when our conversations went far beyond photography. Some of you shared pieces of your lives with me casually—sometimes so casually that I don’t think you realized the weight of what you were saying.

There were moments when I had to sit with what I heard. Things that might stop an adult in their tracks were simply parts of your everyday reality.

And yet, you showed up. You picked up the camera. You asked another question. You made another photograph. You laughed. You learned. You kept moving.

I don’t write that because I want anyone reading this to feel sorry for these students. That’s not the point.

I write it because society has a dangerous habit of deciding who young people are before taking the time to listen to them. We label children by neighborhoods, schools, test scores, behavior, circumstances, what they have access to, and what they don’t have access to.

Sometimes those labels become so loud that we stop asking the young person standing in front of us one of the simplest questions possible: What do you see?

Photography gave us an opportunity to ask exactly that.

One of my favorite parts of the program happened when we stopped talking about camera settings and started looking at photographs together.

What is happening here? What is the photographer trying to say? Maybe the photographer isn’t trying to say anything at all. Okay, then what do you see?

That’s when things became interesting.

The theories started coming. The interpretations. The reasoning. The questions.

One student would see something another student completely missed. Someone would attach meaning to a detail in the corner of the frame. Someone else would interpret the expression on a person’s face. Another would build an entire story around what might have happened five seconds before the photograph was taken.

I listened, and some of what I heard was remarkable.

Not because I was surprised that these students were capable of thinking deeply. I didn’t know them well enough to be surprised. This was my first summer with them.

What struck me was how quickly a photograph created space for them to demonstrate something that doesn’t always show up on a report card: perspective.

That matters to me because perspective is one of the most valuable things a photographer owns. You can teach someone what ISO means. You can teach aperture, shutter speed, lighting, and Photoshop. But I cannot hand you your way of seeing the world. That belongs to you.

To the students who stuck with the photography program this summer, I won’t put your names here. You know who you are. I want you to understand something I probably didn’t say enough during those six weeks. The photographs you made weren’t the most important thing I saw this summer. Your curiosity was. Your willingness to ask questions was. Your ability to interpret what you saw was. The fact that some of you wanted to understand how a camera could become a way to create a different reality for yourselves was.

Photography can absolutely become a business. You can photograph portraits, weddings, fashion, sports, products, restaurants, architecture, concerts, families, advertising campaigns, news, or documentaries. You can make films. You can own a studio. You can travel. You can teach. You can build something that doesn’t exist yet.

But before any of that happens, photography gives you something even more fundamental: permission to pay attention. When you begin paying attention to the world differently, eventually you begin paying attention to yourself differently too. Don’t underestimate that.

The camera doesn’t care where you’re from. It doesn’t know your GPA. It doesn’t know what’s happening at home. It doesn’t know how much money is in your pocket. It doesn’t know what someone has already decided you’re supposed to become.

It responds to the person holding it. Your eye. Your timing. Your choices. Your perspective. There is an artist somewhere inside of every person willing to look closely enough to find them.

I also want to acknowledge Dr. Plaxico, Principal of McKinley Lakeside High School, and the faculty and staff who continue showing up for these students throughout the year. Six weeks allowed me to enter their world for a moment. The people at McKinley Lakeside are doing this work long after the summer program ends.

Education isn’t only curriculum. Sometimes it’s creating a safe place to land. Sometimes it’s finding another resource. Sometimes it’s answering the same question again. Sometimes it’s recognizing something in a student before that student recognizes it in themselves. Sometimes it’s simply continuing to show up. That work deserves recognition and, more importantly, support.

So I want to use this space for something beyond displaying photographs. If you’re reading this and you have access to something that could benefit these students—creative resources, cameras, equipment, mentorship, internships, employment opportunities, college access, technology, workshops, studio access, field experiences, funding, or simply your time — I encourage you to reach out to McKinley Lakeside High School and find out how you can contribute.

Our young people don’t lack imagination. Too often, they lack access. Those are two very different problems.

And finally, to my students: thank you.

You reminded me that teaching photography isn’t really about teaching someone how to operate a camera. It’s about teaching someone that what they see is worth examining. That their perspective has value. That their experiences can become stories. That a tool in their hands can become an opportunity.

You reminded me of something about my own camera too. After all these years, it still isn’t simply how I make photographs. It’s how I’ve learned to move through the world. Now some of you have had the opportunity to pick one up and begin discovering what the world looks like through your eyes. Keep looking. Keep asking questions. Keep making pictures.

And wherever life takes you, don’t allow anybody else’s label to become the boundary of what you believe is possible for yourself. You know who you are. I’ll be watching to see what you see next.

***Images below are from a photo walk we did through China Town in Chicago IL***

Adam Taylor

Photographer | Visual Artist | Educator

AXM Studios — Chicago