The Beginning

The earliest portraits of me are two black and white 8x10s, hand-printed on thick fiber paper. I remember the corners were curled; there were dust spots all over the prints.

In one, I’m standing in my crib with bright eyes and a big smile. It’s a beautiful close-up portrait. In the other, I’m lying on my stomach. A blanket is over me, and you can see one-half of my face as I crawl out from under it. You can tell by the perspective that the photographer must have been lying on the floor with me. The crop is tight, the feeling intimate.

I loved these portraits, and, at some point, I was old enough to realize they didn’t take themselves. When I asked who did, my mother told me it was my father. He loved photography and constantly took pictures of me when I was born. My heart swelled. The man who always seemed stand-offish must have actually had great affection for me, adoration even. The reassurance this provided me can’t be overstated. Any misgivings I had about his feelings for me must have been in my imagination. This resonated deeply with me and became my touchpoint as our relationship grew increasingly more difficult over the years.

I realize now that somewhere, subconsciously, this was the beginning of my deep belief in the power of a portrait. We all know that children who see themselves in portraits in their homes feel valued, of worth. I know in my bones that those portraits can change how a child sees themselves and how they understand their place within their family. I see it every day in the studio.

While I can’t tell you where those 8x10 portraits are today, I can remember every detail about them, as both remain indelibly etched in my brain almost 50 years later.

The Discovery

Growing up, my dad always had a camera with him, and there were countless photo albums of our vacations, holidays, and everyday life. This love of photography was passed on to me (must be in the genes!, I thought), and I was given a camera sometime in my first-grade year. This began the lifelong obsession that followed me through high school and college and, ultimately, brought me to where I am today.

While I was still young, I found out that this man I called “Dad” was not my biological father. He didn’t meet and marry my mother until I was two, which meant—the realization coming to me in slow motion—that he was actually not the father who took those beautiful 8x10s I cherished. I had spent years convincing myself that his coldness was all in my head (it couldn’t be real when he was the one who created those loving portraits), and now I was forced to reconsider.

The earth shook.

Where was my “real” father…this man who clearly loved me? “He left us when you were still a baby,” my mother told me. “He didn’t want to be a father.”

The Aftermath

Probably the only thing scarier than presenting my portfolio to you is laying out this “dirty laundry” I was conditioned never to speak of. I could probably count on one hand the number of times my mother and I ever talked about it again. I know nothing about my biological father besides the fact that at one point - even if for a short while, even if it wasn’t enough to stay - he must have loved me. The proof is in those portraits.

The man I called “Dad” while growing up was always just out of reach to me. Our relationship was distant, to say the least; I existed on the periphery of his attention. His feelings flowed freely towards my younger sister—his biological child—while, for me, they were strictly conditional. I was acknowledged when I was in his good graces; when I wasn’t (more often than not), I simply didn’t exist. The two of them forged a closeness I could only witness, never experience for myself.

In high school, our relationship devolved into an obvious disdain for each other. I rebelled in every way possible. Eventually, my parents divorced, and I never heard from him again. Sometime after college—for reasons I don’t fully understand and don’t really matter—my mother and sister also excused themselves from our relationship. Without any extended relations, my limited “family experience” had run its course.

The Spectator

I grew up with a persistent feeling of disconnection from those around me, a sense of always being slightly removed, observing from the outside. I’m sure much of it has to do with feeling fundamentally unworthy of inclusion in my own home.

I can laugh about some of it now. For example, in high school, I was well-liked but couldn’t quite attain the status as one of the “cool kids.” I was what you might call “cool adjacent.” My best friend was captain of the cheerleading squad, and I dated the high-school quarterback, but I was also taking four years of Latin and playing in the marching band. At least at my school, both presented some social limitations.

That gnawing feeling of not belonging continued in college, like a low-grade fever that never quite broke. I didn’t join a sorority (practically a sin at my southern school), and the "typical" college experience eluded me. I was more of a spectator, watching roommates and friends from the sidelines.

After graduation, my classmates headed off to big-city corporate jobs. I stayed in town, worked in retail, and again, felt like I had somehow missed the mark. Looking back, I now realize this path was necessary to bring me to photography. After a few years, I took a job managing a small local studio. It was my chance to see the real world of portrait photography. I had the business chops, but I wasn’t sure if combining the two to make an actual career was possible. It turned out it was, and in the summer of 2000, I made the leap — Monica Sigmon Photography was born.

I want to take a break here to reset. Sharing my past is challenging; reflection can be painful. It's safe to say that it's been at least two decades since I've turned my conscious thoughts to any of this. Many (dare I say most) of my memories through early adulthood are hazy, like looking at faded old photographs, mainly due to survival instincts. I prefer to keep moving forward rather than dwell on what's behind me.

And I want to be clear: This isn't a "poor me" story. It’s not an attempt to portray a deficient childhood or blame my past for any perceived flaws in my adult self. Providing this history is simply for the task at hand: giving context to what has shaped me, specifically how I approach photography. As you’re about to read, these experiences have directly influenced how I see and create portraits.

The Studio

I’ve spent the last 25 years photographing families and children. Although I’ve had a physical studio space from almost the very beginning, I did most of my work outdoors. The long 70-200mm lens was my favorite. Not only for the beautiful compression it provided, but I think, to some extent, because of the safe distance it afforded me from my subjects. In fact, for several years, I was so afraid to connect with my clients that I had someone else handle all of the client interactions. I only saw clients at the session itself—something that I emphatically espouse against now when I teach. I was hiding. Behind the camera, behind my staff.

In the years since I’ve lost count of the number of times a client would recount previous sessions we had together, of which I had no recollection. “Remember when he wasn’t cooperating but you got him to laugh and captured those great expressions? And how we hung all nine of those portraits together in the living room?” Actually, no, I don’t remember. Any of it. Because I didn’t allow myself to engage with you, I was scared that you wouldn’t like me or my work. I have been conditioned to live on the periphery so that I couldn’t connect with you emotionally. During these conversations, I smiled, nodded my head, and once again, felt cheated.

Despite my detachment, the work was always good. Refined? Maybe not so much in those early days. Emotional? Absolutely. I became known for “unscripted” relationship-based portraits, portraying my clients with emotion and honesty. Many of them were in black-and-white, and most were very close-up crops. It’s only now, at this very moment, writing to you, that I realize where that template came from. After all these years, the tears have come.

I have since acknowledged and forgiven myself for not being fully present in those early years. I really do think I did the very best I knew how at the time.

Perhaps the same could be said of my fathers.

The Present

Things are different now. Monica Sigmon Photography is now Sigmon Taylor Photography. Michael Taylor and I share our studio and our lives, and after many years of trying to define my photographic voice, I feel like I’m creating the work I was meant to create.

Now, I don’t hide. I spend time with my clients, and I am grateful for the relationships we build together. I silently offer up thanks for each opportunity to bear witness to their lives, promising never to take this access for granted again. This access provides a window through which I can observe the natural order of things: weddings, new babies, families coming together for parents’ milestone anniversaries, cousins as best friends, children I’ve photographed having children of their own. I witness experiences commonplace for others yet foreign to me, trying to fill in the gaps of my own history. The deficits of my past have led me to approach each session with genuine curiosity, fascination, and reverence. This is the fuel I use to create powerful portraits full of truth.

My work has grown as I have. Heavily influenced by classics like Sargent and Rembrandt, as well as modern portraitists such as Annie Leibovitz, Mark Seliger, and other photographers whose work graces the covers of magazines like Vanity Fair, I wanted to create authentic, more intimate, and introspective portraits. About seven years ago, I started studying portrait lighting in a more refined and intentional way. I became a student again, learning how to use studio lighting to accomplish the look I was aiming for.

The resulting portraits were stripped down and had a sense of stillness. Mark Seliger speaks about his goal of capturing that split second of vulnerability in each subject he photographs. I’ve made this my goal, too, and I strive to bring it forward in every session.

The Opportunity

When the world stopped spinning in 2020, we were all paralyzed. Being locked down for months during a global pandemic did nothing for our mental health. Myself, I’m a miserable human when I’m not shooting. And we weren’t shooting. At all. When we were allowed to come out of our homes with masks, staying 6 feet apart, most of our clients still weren’t comfortable proceeding with their scheduled sessions. Even the ones that were ok moving forward had to cancel: they couldn’t get haircuts, dogs couldn’t get groomed.

One day, I came across a post on social media from a girl whose senior portraits I had done a few years before. She was a phenomenal dancer, and I LOVED incorporating that element into her session; I had never photographed a dancer before, and I remember asking Abby so many questions, learning about the hard work, dedication, and sacrifice required to be great. Having worked with her family since she was seven, I was able to share in their joy and excitement when she was accepted to the NYU Tisch Department of Dance. Her family had sacrificed so much to give her this opportunity; they were all in it together. Again, this was a concept that felt new to me, and I gave thanks for the opportunity to witness it. Abby’s post shared how she was still dancing during the lockdown, attending classes via laptop in her kitchen, and happily making the best of it. I was wowed by her dedication, resilience, and sheer joy in continuing to do what she loved.

I’ve always been fascinated by dancers. To me, they are the perfect fusion of artists and athletes. In fact, right before Covid hit, I had made arrangements to audit several dance classes at a local studio to learn more about the language, movement, and art of dancing. I wanted to educate myself so I could start photographing dancers and do so without feeling like a complete outsider.

But, when the pandemic started, and in-person classes were canceled, there was nothing for me to audit. Like Abby, students were relegated to continuing class alone on their laptops. So, when I saw Abby dancing in her kitchen on Instagram, I realized that a dance project might be exactly what I could start now. And that’s what I did.

The Project

What began as a model call to keep me moving and sane while the rest of the world remained at home evolved into a 9-month-long artist project culminating in an online virtual exhibition the following summer. Over two dozen dancers came in one at a time. With each session, I learned that what I thought was a solitary pursuit—perhaps another reason I was drawn to it— was actually deeply communal. Dancers spend countless hours together, rehearsing, performing, and relying on each other like family. CoVid stripped these dancers of their closest connections. They were used to performing before audiences several times a year; now, the stages stood dark. They were lonely, isolated.

As the project grew in scope and size, it served as the spotlight these dancers had been missing. Many parents told me this is what got their children through CoVid. I could relate. It did the same for me.

The sessions themselves were also so much more than I expected. Because I knew nothing about dance, I allowed myself to come to these sessions with uncharacteristic vulnerability. The collaborations that resulted were beautiful and pure. What I wanted to learn and hoped ultimately to portray in the portraits was this: when they close their eyes, immersed in music and movement, where do they go? What does it feel like to fly?

As you look through the images in this portfolio (many of which are from the exhibition), I hope you get a glimpse of the answers to those questions.

Several of the portraits aim to address them specifically, created with the intentional drag of the shutter to illustrate motion and drama. This was the closest I could come to actually experiencing dancing for myself.

Other images don’t have any motion at all. My intent with these was to use the same concepts of stillness and reverence from my regular portrait work to illustrate the sport’s more solitary nature. I also hope that the collection as a whole gives a more complete perspective of the dancers’ experience.

My journey into dance photography continues to evolve. Currently, I'm focusing on group portraits; I’ve shared a few here. With these, my intention is to capture the delicate balance between each dancer's individual strength and their integral role in the collective. Through these portraits, I want to convey the profound lesson the dancers have taught me: that one can have a profoundly personal, solitary experience while simultaneously belonging to something bigger.

LAST WORDS

And so, this journey has brought me full circle. I’ve gained profound insights into the power of connection, love, and self-acceptance. I've learned that my past hasn't limited my vision; it has expanded it and that our history doesn't define us—it equips us. I still often observe from the periphery, but now it’s by choice, from a place of strength and curiosity rather than rejection and insecurity. I'm driven by the opportunity to bear witness, to help others see beauty and truth in their lives, and to experience a taste of it myself.

Now I, too, can dance; now, I am free.

With respect and gratitude,
Monica Sigmon