Beauty photography …

Out of all the beauty images I have shot throughout my career, this remains my favourite.

I created this image as part of a fashion editorial published in a New Zealand magazine.

These photographs perfectly represent my love of working with — and bending — natural light.

I love the way natural light wraps itself around the body, especially the face.

This entire editorial was photographed in the backyard of my terrace house, simply playing with light and shadow.

Eight pages shot in two hours.

Marie Claire August 2023 …

Delighted to have my beauty photography featured in the beauty pages of Marie Claire Australia — August issue.

Looking forward to repeating the joy in the November issue.

#watchthisspace

The art of the journey …

The task of writing this blog — and making it hold genuine value — has felt daunting, but also strangely inviting.

Unexpected.

“Unexpected” is a word I often use to describe myself.

Truthfully, I welcome the unexpected… once my initial overwhelming resistance fades.

Haha.

So I set myself the goal of creating a journal that I hoped might inspire others to relentlessly pursue their dreams until their very last breath.

To know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if I can do it, you can too.

This is not lip service.

It is a belief I have always held about humanity, and I think we need that reminder now more than ever.

I love the beauty editorial image above.

The makeup artist who created this magnificent look was an absolute ball of energy.

We travelled to Los Angeles together and photographed countless supermodels and famous actresses.

For nearly two weeks, we worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day.

We shot until we dropped.

We gave everything we had.

And along the way, we made extraordinary friends whom we will keep for life.

On our final night, after wrapping the job, one of those stunning actresses took us to Chateau Marmont, where she had apparently lived for almost a year while her house was being renovated.

What an adventure that night became.

Two Australian mums dancing in a secret VIP nightclub.

To enter, we were escorted through a red velvet rope and led down hidden hallways behind the kitchens of one of LA’s most iconic hotels.

The entire experience felt so surreal that, at one point, I genuinely wondered whether I was about to be sold into white slavery.

But I was already on the ride.

And I am always ride or die.

If we were going in, we were going in together — come what may.

What neither of us knew then was that, shortly after returning to Sydney, the makeup artist would be diagnosed with a serious illness.

Then, about a year later, I would fight for my own life four times in a row.

I told nobody beyond my immediate family.

My own mother died never knowing how close to death I had repeatedly come.

I simply could not allow her to carry that fear.

I knew my mother.

If she had known, she would never have slept.

It was during COVID and she was already stressed enough. And if Mum worried, Dad worried too.

The ordeal pushed my children dangerously close to nervous breakdowns.

It shredded my life.

Yet somehow… I got lucky.

Again.

I survived every single time.

My first surgeon eventually became one of my closest friends.

Family, really.

Andrew is the same age as my little brother.

Sadly, the makeup artist was not as lucky.

I will not mention her name, nor speak publicly yet about what I went through myself.

When the time is right, I will tell that story too.

But not yet.

I am a walking miracle.

There is still one final little trick left to perform — with Andrew and Christobel’s assistance, of course — and then perhaps I will finally share it all, in the hope that it helps others heal.

Because miracles belong to everyone.

Not just me.

Perhaps it is this journey that embedded such profound gratitude into my psyche.

I have always been deeply self-aware about what draws me toward beauty and fashion photography.

I love that, through my talent, other people’s dreams come true.

That sound on set — pure joy — when a makeup artist sees their work materialise on the monitor for the very first time.

Watching a client light up as their campaign suddenly comes alive.

The energy of it.

The vibration.

The resonance that fills the room.

That is what I love about beauty and fashion photography.

This thing I sometimes take for granted because I can simply turn up and do it — it has the power to make other people profoundly happy.

I survived, and because of that I feel there must be purpose in it.

I want to see as many people’s dreams come true as possible.

Life is short.

And creating happiness is often far easier than we think.

x

Straight from Streeters agency London to me …

The ever-divine, Sinden Dene.

I fell in love with this man the moment I met him — and even more in love with his portfolio.

When Bobby left for Sydney, I was thrilled for his career success but heartbroken to lose him from my team.

I never told him this, but I literally could not stop crying.

Then a surprise phone call saved the day.

An incredible international session stylist and makeup artist, fresh from London, wandered into my agent’s office and then waltzed directly into my life.

I remember every moment of my first meeting with Sin.

We met over quiche and tea.

Both of us arrived carrying our portfolios.

His polished English accent was intoxicating.

Then he slid his portfolio across the table toward me and I genuinely went into shock.

Magazine tears from Vogue Italia, Numéro, Vivienne Westwood campaigns…

Some of the most divine photographs I had ever seen in my life.

I slowly closed the portfolio and clutched it dramatically to my chest.

Sinden then very politely asked if he could now view my work.

I shook my head.

Meekly.

Huge deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes.

“Please may I see your book, Nicole?” he asked.

“No,” I replied in a tiny, sad voice. “I don’t want you to see it.”

“Why not, Nicole?”

And then, with complete vulnerability, I admitted:

“I have never seen a portfolio as incredible as yours, Sinden. Mine simply isn’t good enough. Italian Vogue, for goodness sake!”

That beautiful man — who had already spent the previous hour speaking with me about life, family, and career — responded with such sincerity and kindness.

Brutal honesty wrapped in softness.

“Nicole,” he said, “I would swap my portfolio and entire career for your marriage and children.”

What an extraordinary thing to say.

I exhaled.

Handed my portfolio over.

Then closed my eyes.

He looked through my work, liked what he saw, and recognised immediately that we would make a strong creative team.

The rest is history.

We have now worked together for more than fifteen years.

Sinden Dene is one of the most talented creative artists anyone could ever hope to collaborate with.

And somehow, after all these years, we still work together to this very day.

Watch this space…

Sin and I have recently started shooting together again, and we already have another shoot booked.

I cannot wait to share the images.

The photographs above are two pages from a beauty editorial titled Heavy Metal.

I love you, Sin.

You are the yin to my yang. x

Tia Blanco…

One of the greatest perks of my job is working with beautiful and exciting people.

I have had the great pleasure of photographing Tia Blanco numerous times.

For those unfamiliar with Tia, she is a world champion surfer, celebrity vegan, and a total force of nature.

This is one of my favourite portraits of Tia.

It was a really beautiful day in my life.

Tia was competing in a surf competition and, much like me, she is a passionate animal lover.

She absolutely adores my apricot Groodle, “Ms Matilda Sooky Lala” — aka “Muppet the Wonder Dog.”

I cannot remember the exact reason now, but there was some complication with her accommodation. Either she had a long drive ahead of her or something unexpected had happened.

So I invited Tia to stay at my house and crash in Jimi’s room for the night.

I then had to text Jimi and kindly request that he stay overnight at his girlfriend’s house instead.

I knew Muppet would be thrilled to receive extra cuddles from the divine Tia.

What I absolutely did not anticipate, however, was the explosion of excitement that followed once my son received that text message.

You see, Jimi’s girlfriend was a devoted vegan and happened to be one of the hundreds of thousands of loyal followers on Tia’s vegan Instagram account.

Suddenly my phone began exploding with unexpected messages while I was still on the shoot.

Excitement was very clearly in the air.

Jimi’s girlfriend and her best friend — both extremely enthusiastic Tia Blanco fans — were desperate to meet her.

Long story short, after the shoot we all ended up going out for dinner together in Newtown: Tia, Jimi, the girls, and me.

I have honestly never seen girls so excited or ask so many questions in my life.

It was such a sweet moment.

I genuinely love those little career perks.

That — and never needing to buy makeup for years at a time because beautiful clients keep gifting it to me.

So lucky.

:)

Big hugs to you, Tia.

Thank you for making my Jimi the hero that day.

It was a beautiful evening.

Metamorphosis …

Now was finally the moment to emerge from the cocoon and metamorphose into a beauty photographer.

Suddenly, whilst completely swamped with wedding bookings and children’s work, it was time to get brave.

Time to sidestep into fashion and beauty.

This was a terrifying prospect for me.

I always felt as though I was in the deep end, paddling as fast as I could, and I hate failing.

So naturally, I procrastinated.

During those first years of metamorphosis, one song followed me everywhere: Gwen Stefani’s What You Waiting For?

Every single time I got into the car, it seemed to be playing.

The universe was pushing me once again.

As usual, I had no choice.

So I dove in headfirst and worked relentlessly to meet my potential.

And, as usual, I got lucky.

I met international makeup artists fresh from careers in New York, Europe, and the UK.

Whenever one pivotal makeup artist jetted off to greener pastures, another would somehow land in Perth straight from agencies like Streeters in London.

My relationships with those makeup artists became absolutely vital to the standard of work I eventually created, particularly within beauty photography.

I could bend natural light like a magician, but I had never stepped foot inside a studio or switched on a flash head in my life.

I knew absolutely nothing about studio lighting.

People constantly tell me I give makeup artists too much credit for my career, but I am not being modest.

Beauty and fashion are team efforts, and I understood the mechanics of that immediately.

The artists recognised that I could light beautifully and that precision was deeply embedded in my process.

In return, they needed me to rise instantly to their standard so that collaborating with me was worth their time.

Pressure like that makes me thrive.

I was profoundly grateful to have them beside me.

So I listened carefully to everything they said.

I learnt.

Adjusted.

Evolved into what they needed me to become.

Those years were an extraordinary gift.

You cannot learn that kind of experience at university.

It has to be lived.

Day in, day out.

Under the careful — albeit occasionally brutal — mentorship of people already operating at the very top of the industry.

This beauty story was actually titled Metamorphosis.

The lighting was entirely my own work, but the creative direction came directly from the powerful mind of Hendra.

The images above belong to a series of four photographs depicting butterfly wings, and that series secured me my very first magazine cover in New York.

Later, the images earned the makeup artist a finalist position in Val Garland’s international makeup colour competition.

Val Garland is a world-renowned makeup artist based in London.

I truly loved creating alongside every makeup artist I worked with in Perth.

To each of you — thank you. x

I Do …

The next phase of my career also happened by accident.

Who knew?

Well actually, at this point I am probably becoming quite predictable.

My life often felt like something happening to me, and I simply had to paddle fast enough to keep up.

To be completely honest, I love adventure and get a bit of a rush from adrenaline.

We were flying in and out of the outback.

I was booking children’s photography work and felt genuinely excited that people would actually pay me to do something I loved so deeply.

I had won numerous awards, which still felt abstract somehow, but I rolled with it.

Honestly, I was just trying to keep up.

At the same time, I was thrilled to finally have a home we were renovating, rapidly turning it into a nest for my little babies.

I used to sit on the back step and watch the enormous Western Australian thunderstorms roll in.

That smell of rain.

I am the type of person who finds joy in the smallest things.

Magic exists in tiny moments.

That’s a secret many people overlook.

I was just as excited by the pansies growing in my garden as I was by the photography awards sitting on my shelf.

Life felt exciting.

One day, while grocery shopping with the children, I was offered my very first wedding photography job.

Honestly, this was probably more a testament to how friendly I am than to my actual skill level at the time.

Theresa — the beautiful woman working at the fruit shop register — took one look at Paris’ hair and asked who had cut it.

I was shocked.

I had cut Paris’ hair myself.

Theresa immediately tried to book me to do her hair for her wedding day, and my response was to laugh for an exceptionally long time.

“Theresa… that is an extremely bad idea. But thank you!”

You see, I had cut Paris’ hair using pinking shears after a particularly horrific head lice outbreak at school.

Miraculously, it somehow worked.

I had transformed waist-length hair into a Gwyneth Paltrow Sliding Doors haircut.

But I was certainly no professional hairdresser.

Paris being absolutely breathtakingly beautiful helped enormously.

Looking back now, I suspect Theresa was reacting more to Paris’ angelic beauty than the haircut itself.

However, after seeing my photography work —

(which, embarrassingly, included photographs of frogs… oh my God… hahaha)

— Theresa asked me to photograph her wedding.

And for some insane reason, I said yes.

To my enormous relief, I actually did a good job.

Shortly afterwards, a makeup artist asked me to do one of her favourite clients a favour.

The bride’s original photographer had double-booked, and with only six weeks until the wedding, every established wedding photographer was already booked.

So I did the favour.

The bride was absolutely stunning.

Again, I got lucky.

I always seemed to receive extraordinary opportunities.

At the time, I had no idea the bride was actually an undercover narcotics detective working in Melbourne.

Though, in hindsight, it certainly explained the strange nature of our phone conversations.

To this day, I still adore her.

The wedding was beautiful, and during it I captured one organic, pinnacle image that would ultimately launch my wedding photojournalism career in Margaret River.

I enlarged that image to poster size, framed it, and proudly displayed it in my consultation room.

There it remained until the day I left Western Australia.

Just before moving back to Sydney, I called the bride and asked whether she would like to keep the photograph.

She raced over immediately.

I actually love that it belongs to her now after all these years.

After all, she created the moment.

That image helped build my wedding career.

It helped it flourish.

And ultimately, it belongs with the beautiful wife and mother who lived it.

So many brides afterwards requested a photograph just like hers.

The groom had spontaneously swept her up into his arms.

He was strong and handsome.

She was fit and graceful, and like a ballerina she instinctively arched backwards into the perfect pose.

I pressed the shutter.

Click.

A flawless, organic moment between two souls completely in sync.

A moment that could never be repeated.

I am still slightly haunted by the day I collected the twenty rolls of film that documented their wedding.

I was beside myself with anxiety.

Terrified I had disappointed them.

They were such lovely people and I felt the pressure enormously.

I remember lying face-down across the counter at the professional lab like a complete drama queen while begging the staff member to please check whether the images were okay.

“Just tell me honestly,” I pleaded. “Are they okay, or do I need to leave the country in shame?”

The staff member laughed and replied:

“These images are amazing, Nicole. Some of the best wedding photographs to come through this lab, actually.”

I was completely taken aback.

I made them promise they weren’t simply lying to spare my feelings.

From that point onward, I spent the next decade photographing high-end destination weddings throughout Margaret River amongst some of the most spectacular vineyards and coastal landscapes imaginable.

My assistant throughout those years was actually a civil engineer.

Terribly overqualified for the role, yet completely devoted to supporting my dreams.

At the end of every single wedding, I paid him with a kebab.

Occasionally chips too, upon request.

While those Margaret River days are long gone, they will never be forgotten.

When I think back on them, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

And gratitude, I believe, is the foundation of grace.

The image above is from one of my favourite weddings.

Such a beautiful couple.

Photographed at Saracen Estate, Margaret River.

The image was shot digitally with absolutely no editing.

Exactly as captured.

I still love the moment.

Everyone was happy, and the entire bridal party was a joy to work with.

In my mind, I keep every couple suspended in a perfect world where all their dreams came true afterwards.

But in reality, I know life unfolded differently for some of them.

Some brides have already passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly.

Some couples divorced.

Some carried the sadness of never being able to have children together.

But every single one of them experienced a perfect wedding day filled with joy.

And they entrusted me to preserve those moments forever.

For that, I will always be grateful.

Thank you. x

Malpractice, Whooping cough, 3rd degree burns, near death at Christmas, countless surgeries thereafter.

My beautiful baby boy, always fighting for his very life!!! … PART 4

Countless surgeries thereafter…

The funny thing about trauma is that you experience it suddenly and dramatically, then somehow convince yourself that once the event has passed, the trauma has disappeared.

It’s over.

Not so.

In the years that followed, Jimi underwent numerous surgeries.

Trips to Emergency became frequent due to severe middle ear infections, until eventually his case was taken on by the head professor of ENT at Princess Margaret Hospital.

Countless grommet surgeries.

He was an unusual worst-case scenario.

Every time he went under general anaesthetic felt like having my heart ripped out, and each procedure retraumatised him.

Looking back now, I honestly do not know how I managed to fit life in the outback around my little circus of parenting.

Then came hydrocele surgery.

For me, this was where the trauma triggers truly resurfaced.

The evening before his first surgery after the Christmas ordeal, another stressful and poorly timed event unfolded.

I was already highly anxious about returning to hospital and facing another general anaesthetic.

My poor baby.

As I paced the hallway, I noticed torchlight in the driveway.

I opened the door to find neighbours in my front yard, panicking.

They had run over my cat.

Off to the 24-hour emergency vet we went.

Then straight to the hospital the next morning.

As is often the tone of my life, it somehow all descended into black comedy.

While Jimi was in theatre, I had a forty-minute window to call the vet and check on Hamlet, who was also in surgery.

I found a payphone in the private hospital’s day-surgery waiting room.

Nearby sat a line of immaculately dressed women anxiously awaiting cosmetic procedures.

The entire situation overwhelmed me and I called my little brother.

Unfortunately, hidden beneath the tough exterior, I am actually a complete sook.

Shhh… don’t tell anyone.

The moment I heard Jamie’s voice, my carefully constructed stoic shell shattered exactly as I feared it would.

I burst into tears explaining what had happened to Hamlet.

(Note to self: if you name a cat after a tragic Shakespearean character, perhaps don’t act surprised when he meets a dramatic fate.)

Through uncontrollable sobs, I cried:

“They don’t know if he’s going to make it! He’s in surgery right now. This is going to cost me a fortune. What am I going to do if he dies? I love him so much!”

Suddenly, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.

The receptionist had quietly walked over and suggested I use the office phone instead.

“It’s a little more private,” she whispered gently, gesturing toward the women waiting nearby.

When I looked across at them, I saw a row of horrified faces staring back at me.

White.

Frozen.

Still sobbing, I blurted out:

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! My cat got run over. Hamlet is in surgery. They don’t know if he’s going to pull through.”

The moment I finished explaining, the entire row of women visibly exhaled in relief.

Then, almost immediately, my name echoed across the intercom:

“Mrs Doran, please come to Recovery Room Five.”

My attachment to photographing children — and valuing that part of my career just as deeply as beauty and fashion — makes complete sense to me now.

My mother always said Nicole was born to be a mother, but nobody warned me how hard I would have to fight to remain one.

I just happen to embody this talent.

I am merely the vessel it flows through.

Giving that gift to as many parents as possible, so together we can freeze time, freeze joy.

True happiness has always been the gravity that brings me home.

The image above is from a series I secretly photographed over many weeks.

I wanted to create the perfect sunset portrait of my children so they could surprise their dad for Father’s Day.

Every time I saw a particular type of cloud formation drifting across the sky, the children and I would race to the beach.

Wonderful images were created.

Time was frozen forever.

Fly on, little wing…

My not-so-little “Jimi Hendrix.”

Love you forever.

Mumma x

Malpractice, Whooping cough, 3rd degree burns, near death at Christmas, countless surgeries thereafter.

My beautiful baby boy, always fighting for his very life!!! … PART 3

Near death at Christmas…

This was one of the most unforgettable nights of my life.

If you knew my life you would really brace for impact!

It was Christmas, which to this day is my favourite time of year.

Paris and Jimi Axl had the best Christmas, as always.

We spent Christmas dinner at my little brother’s future in-laws, I felt so grateful and excited for the invitation.

I had no family backing me in Perth, which is really hard when you are a Mother raising small children.

Suddenly Jimi became sick, very sick.

He was throwing up and getting so much worse. By the time we got home I felt quite panicked.

I told my then husband that I felt we absolutely needed to take Jimi to the hospital, he is very sick.

The response to this statement was a nasty growl; a blunt, cold and abrupt reply.

“I am tired, I am going to bed, if he is still sick in the morning maybe we can take him then!”

The remark shocked me, it was almost aggressive and very upsetting.

He had been drinking but it was so selfish and awful.

I swung into protective mode. I told him: fine, but can you go sleep in Jimi’s bed!

Jimi is staying here with me, where I can watch him.

Watch him is exactly what I did!

At first he fell asleep.

Shortly after he awoke, threw up again and cried.

My goodness I felt alone but I leaned into my courage.

I called a help line, it was called the Koala Kids helpline.

A phone line parents could call if they were worried about their sick children.

It allowed you to speak to a nurse at the Princess Margaret Children’s Hospital.

The nurse I spoke to was wonderful.

I described his symptoms, then I said something obscure.

I said,

“I have zero medical background but he wouldn’t have an obstructed bowel would he??”

Her response was pronounced.

She said “That’s a very specific thing to suggest”.

I back peddled and said, “Of course, I don’t know why I said that.

I am sorry. I am just so anxious. I am terrified!”.

She was caring and beautiful. She totally understood.

I went back to bed, where Jimi was sleeping soundly.

Whilst I sat there and watched him breathe I made myself a promise. I would last until morning as Mickey had asserted, if Jimi slept.

However, if he threw up just 1 more time, I will drive him to the ER myself.

Sure enough, soon after, he woke, threw up and cried.

I bundled that little toddler up and exited the house.

Didn't even pause long enough to put him in his child seat.

I gently tossed him into the passenger seat, wrapped in the huge queen sized doona. I strapped the seatbelt around him and drove that car like I stole it!!!

All the tenacity I inherited from my Mother kicked in.

NO FEAR!

The thing about parenting is that when you take your sick baby to the ER it’s an ordeal.

5 hours is the least you can hope to wait. You’re exhausted and worried out of your mind.

It’s not fun, but that’s parenting … welcome to adulthood.

To this day I say 1 thing to other parents.

The only thing worse than waiting for 5 or 7 hours in the ER … is going to triage and being sent through immediately.

This is what happened on that Christmas evening, Jimi in my arms, hurt, in pain and dying.

Clearly I have an almost photographic memory for some things. Especially anything steeped in great emotion.

It was a skeleton staff and the triage nurse looked scary. Like a bikie. He must have been 6 foot 6, shiny bald head and long grey goatee down to his naval.

I was anxious and slightly terrified of him, but I answered his questions. He was AMAZING at his job, thank you God!!

He asked to see Jimi’s lower abdomen, and as I pushed his pjs down I was shocked to see a huge bulge protruding from there.

Which I had not seen and the nurse anticipated.

He sent us calmly to the next phase, a bed in ER.

There another male nurse attended immediately.

He put cream on Jimi’s forehand and a plastic bandage over that, stating:

“just in case your son needs surgery”

Everyone was calm in an eerie way that made me intrinsically know I should panic, but that’s exactly what you can’t do in front of your critically ill toddler.

I knew something was very wrong. I asked many probing questions as to what was going on.

I was reassured in a calm manner which gave me intense anxiety, rightfully so. That the ER doctor would attend soon and he could explain everything.

This usually means waiting for hours.

In this instance the ER doctor shocked me by arriving within minutes.

He told me they had already called a surgeon.

The belief was that Jimi was suffering from “a Hernia that has abstracted his bowel.”

The only thought that crossed my mind was panick. It’s Christmas, what if the surgeon has been drinking.

Naive to the end Nicole!!! My god!

I was reassured that on call surgeons don’t drink today.

30 minutes later the surgeon arrived. Now is where the story starts.

BRACE FOR IMPACT!!!!

The moment the surgeon arrived it was action stations.

Jimi was wheeled on his little bed down the corridor and into a small treatment room.

I was told it would be best for Jimi if they pushed the part of the bowel back into its position.

I was oblivious as to what this would involve or the unbearable pain my baby would need to endure.

3 nurses and a doctor were in the room.

I don’t know what is was about Christmas but all the nurses were male and all built like fridges.

I was tiny, dwarfed by them and I felt small in every single way.

I had insisted on being there in that room, there was hesitation from the medical staff that I didn’t initially understand but nothing keeps me away from my babies when they are scared or in need.

They told me to stand at the end of Jimi’s bed.

I stood above his head, my hands gently cradled his skull and I maintained constant eye contact.

Smiling and telling Jimi that everything was ok, lying through my teeth.

I was terrified and had to focus on hiding my fear from being visible in my eyes.

The male nurses held his arms and legs down, with force. The doctor pushed the bowel back into place.

The process felt like it took forever!

In moments like these, time refuses to budge.

I honestly don’t know how long we were in that room?

The trauma was sudden and impacted all involved.

Jimi started screaming and crying.

It wasn’t just what he said, it was his desperate pleading and the plain fact that I could do nothing to stop it or protect him from the agony.

All I could do was stand there and lie. Staring straight into his eyes.

He cried non stop, calling out to me..

“Mummy, tell them, I don’t have a baby in my tummy!”

“I promise Mummy!!”

“Mummy, I promise I will be a good boy, please Mummy, make them stop!!”

This pleading went on and on, over and over.

It was emotionally excruciating. I felt like I was going to die, I had to maintain my composure, not cry, not show fear, maintain eye contact.

I said, “it’s ok Jimi, it’s almost done. They will finish soon.”

“You’re being such a brave boy!!”

“I am here baby, Mummy is here and I won’t let go!”

I just stared into his terrified eyes.

The thing that started to topple me was that as Jimi continued to scream and plead, the nurses started to leave, they were in tears.

I think just 1 left.

It’s a blur.

All I know is that I then had to hold Jimi down.

It was too much for 1 of these fridge sized men, too upsetting. It was too much for anyone.

I had no choice but to bunker down and hack it.

Funnily enough, I don’t remember the next few hours. Its totally blank.

They took him to surgery, I was with him until he went under.

I was always the last thing he saw going under anaesthetic and the first thing he saw coming out of anaesthetic.

He was always scared, almost as scared as I was, I just hid it better.

The rest is a wash of no memory.

I remember going into the ward with him numerous hours later. I slept in a chair next to his hospital bed.

I remember the surgeon telling me how lucky it was that I brought him in when I did, had we waited til morning Jimi would have surely died.

My little champion dodged another bullet.

This post is dedicated to all the sole parents out there who are dealing with every challenge or crisis alone.

Please do not feel married couples do it better.

WE DON’T.

You are AMAZING!

I have nothing but massive respect for you all.

You are doing an impossible job that 2 parents struggle with, but you are excelling all alone!!!

This goes out to 1 individual in particular.

You know who you are and I am so proud of you!

Those 2 babies are incredibly lucky to have you.

Just keep swinging for the fences. You are built to win.. Keep WINNING!

With respect!

N. x

Malpractice, Whooping cough, 3rd degree burns, near death at Christmas, countless surgeries thereafter.

My beautiful baby boy, always fighting for his very life!!! … PART 2.

Whooping Cough …

In a year when babies across the country were dying from an unexpected outbreak of whooping cough, Jimi Axl — just five weeks old — started coughing.

He was one week shy of his immunisations.

My Jimi was one of the unlucky ones, once again.

As though that tiny infant had not already endured enough.

This was harrowing to witness and experience as a mother.

Looking back now, however, it was only the beginning of what he would endure.

It lasted a few terrifying weeks.

For a moment there, it was touch and go.

I had my mother beside me, and her mother too — my beloved Oma.

Three generations standing watch over this tiny soul.

Once again, fighting to live.

Fighting to breathe.

He recovered.

Eleven babies died.

Third-degree burns…

What I didn’t mention earlier — or perhaps what I rarely allowed myself to speak about before.

When Mickey was away at the job interview while I lay in hospital with undiagnosed pneumonia, enduring surgery for appendicitis I never had, he was in Western Australia interviewing for his dream job.

He got the offer.

Of course he did.

He was — and always would be — absolutely brilliant.

An IQ off the charts, a man who embodied limitless potential.

But despite the opportunity, after my near-death experience I refused to go.

I simply couldn’t.

I had become acquainted with mortality.

I realised my mum and dad would one day die.

And while I never truly aligned with Newcastle, the place of my birth, I couldn’t bear to leave my parents behind.

So we stayed.

Then fate intervened, as she always seems to in my life.

A heartbreaking family incident occurred, and suddenly I had no choice but to leave.

I was utterly crushed.

A few weeks into our Western Australian life, I attended a night class.

Photography.

Right up until the moment I got into the car, I almost didn’t go.

It sounds ridiculous now, but I had never left my babies with anyone except Mum or Oma.

I had an awful feeling something would happen to Jimi.

Mickey had never bathed him before, and I had a terrible feeling.

I felt guilty, irrational, unfair.

He was a good man and a wonderful father.

Surely I was overreacting.

So I went.

I returned home from class to find a note taped to the door:

“Baby gone to hospital — from ambulance driver.”

I think I went into shock.

I flew to the car and drove through the dark in a city I barely knew.

By some miracle, I found the hospital and the burns unit.

Then, just steps from the nurses’ station, I saw stars dancing in front of my eyes like something from a cartoon.

I slid down the wall onto the floor.

Clearly, I passed out.

The nurses lifted me to my feet, put a gown on me, and led me to my baby’s room.

He was sitting there in a tiny pastel-yellow button-up shirt.

I remember every minute detail.

Jimi sat in that hospital crib and, the moment he saw me, he stood up and reached his little arms toward me — tiny hands wrapped in enormous bandages.

“Mumma…”

That broken little voice babies use right before they cry.

I will never forget it.

I bolted across the room and swept him into my arms.

“It’s okay now. Mummy’s here.”

And there I stayed.

For ten days.

I only remember leaving the burns unit once, later that first night after Jimi had fallen asleep.

I found a payphone, sat on the hospital floor, and called my Oma.

I sobbed.

I told her how frightened I was and that I didn’t know if I could cope there alone.

She told me of course I could.

“Pull yourself together.”

She reminded me she was only a phone call away.

She told me everything would be okay.

And I believed her.

In that burns unit there were two babies, both seven months old, both with third-degree burns to their hands.

For anyone fortunate enough to know nothing about burns, the daily changing of dressings is a horror beyond words.

The children’s burns unit was particularly traumatising.

Children crying.

Babies screaming in agony every morning while their bandages were changed.

And there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop their pain.

Your own baby knowing he is next.

Even writing this now, I flash back to that trauma.

The nurses always left Jimi until last because he was so calm during the dressing changes.

The other seven-month-old baby screamed at the top of his lungs.

Poor little soul.

It was unbearable to hear.

I distracted Jimi as best I could.

Jimi never screamed.

He has an extraordinarily high pain threshold, much like I do.

They gave him medication to take the edge off the agony.

He was so brave.

He just looked sad.

Every time, he said the same thing:

“Mumma… ouch.”

Then he would whimper and cry just a little.

Ten days later, we walked out of that burns unit together.

Although we had been warned on the very first day that the severity of the burns would most likely require surgery and skin grafts, he healed miraculously.

No surgery needed.

The scars eventually disappeared completely by his teenage years.

The image above is one of the very first professional infant portraits I ever captured.

Shot on my first digital camera.

This image won me an AIPP award.

Photographed in natural light at Matilda Bay Foreshore.

Malpractice, Whooping cough, 3rd degree burns, near death at Christmas, countless surgeries thereafter…

My beautiful baby boy, always fighting for his very life… PART 1

I have often wondered what made me ignore Max Pam’s insight.

Who wouldn’t want to be told they are a fashion photographer?

Clearly me. But why?

I defied agents whom I worshipped and didn’t feel worthy of. I was advised to hide the fact that I was a children’s portrait photographer, but it was my passion.

Why, Nicole?

This is my conclusion as to why I had to — and still have to — be a children’s portrait photographer. Why I am compelled to follow my creative voice, why it matters, if only to me.

Why I had to add children’s work to my brand as a beauty and fashion photographer, and why I feel it is equal to my beauty work.

After all, this is my journey until the end.

A daughter of a professional mother and a father I worshipped so deeply that I named my son after him.

Though proudly married, I refused to relinquish Dad’s identity from my name.

McCluskey — aka James McCluskey — is an integral part of my identity.

My Jimi is the fourth James in my bloodline.

Even with my beauty and fashion career unfolding, children’s portraiture remained a deep passion.

I am drawn to it like a gravitational pull.

All I can fathom is that it is intrinsically linked to my own journey as a mother and how profoundly grateful I am that I did not lose my baby.

The procession of near misses built within me a knowing that time is not something you take for granted, and that motherhood is a fragile gift — one not every woman receives, and not every mother gets to keep.

Malpractice…

My battle started before Jimi was even born.

Getting him into this world was the greatest challenge I had ever faced.

As these things do, it happened suddenly.

I woke struggling to breathe.

I was in agony, as though an elephant was playing a grand piano on my chest.

I lay there in pain for hours, not wanting to wake Mickey. He had work in the morning.

I just tried to breathe and not panic.

I was approximately 24 weeks pregnant with my second child. Pregnancy for me was always difficult and dangerous, but I wanted a little boy to go with my perfect little girl.

I wanted Mickey to have a son.

After many days in hospital, there was still no diagnosis.

Pethidine was administered every four hours for pain relief.

I got very unlucky.

A surgeon — nicknamed “The Blade” by the nursing staff — took on my case.

He stood at my bedside while I sat foggy from medication and in extreme pain.

Unfortunately, due to terrible timing, my former husband had gone away for a job interview — his dream job — during this ordeal.

Mum and Dad were there beside me.

I was too sick to fully comprehend who was there, to be completely honest.

Bluntly, the surgeon stated that the tests were inconclusive, but he believed it could be appendicitis.

He offered to operate.

Because I was pregnant, he couldn’t perform keyhole surgery, so I would be left with a scar.

He told me I would lose the baby, but that without surgery I would likely die.

Looking back now, I think: who cares about a scar?

I actually wear that scar with pride.

It represents my victory.

The surgeon said he would only be around for a short period of time and told me to think it over.

I cried, but I didn’t feel I had a choice.

The surgery went ahead.

I survived.

The baby survived.

But I was no better.

In fact, I was worse.

To this day, I cannot tell you exactly what happened next.

A woman appeared, said very little, placed me into a wheelchair, and wheeled me down to X-ray.

Then she left me there with paperwork on my lap.

The staff looked surprised to see me.

I stood there barefoot, weighing almost nothing, weak, fresh surgical scar exposed, in unimaginable pain, holding that metal shield in front of my unborn baby.

My arms shook.

My legs trembled.

I was close to passing out, and tears of determination streamed down my face.

I did not have the strength to stand, but I refused to let that shield lower.

If it killed me, I would protect my unborn child.

The gratitude I feel toward that unknown woman can never truly be expressed in words.

The X-rays came back, and the source of my illness was finally discovered.

Pneumonia.

Not appendicitis.

It was never appendicitis.

I was later told that the surgeon had already booked me in for gallbladder removal next.

I was nothing more than spare parts to that monster, and I would have perished.

After several days of IV antibiotics, my fight slowly returned.

I checked myself out of hospital AMA — against medical advice.

My mum had to battle to get me released.

She backed me completely.

My poor mother.

I cannot remember exactly what was said, but she was warned she might be taking me home to die.

I was not out of the woods by any means.

My survival was not guaranteed.

She would likely be bringing me back to hospital.

I was also likely to lose the baby at any moment, and even if I carried him to full term, they believed he would most likely be stillborn.

I limped out of that hospital with my mother holding me upright.

This is her story as much as it is mine.

She was the strength I came from.

A long line of strong women, all born onto the same vineyard in the Black Forest.

Gundelsheim, Germany.

She was beside herself that day.

She had to call upon the support of her best friend just to hold herself together.

I returned home to my childhood house, tucked beneath the strong wing of my mum and dad.

To keep me out of hospital, they convinced our GP to do a personal favour.

He visited every morning and every afternoon to administer Maxolon injections for the vomiting.

I was too ill to travel to the surgery.

I suffer from hyperemesis gravidarum during pregnancy.

I weighed 44 kilograms.

I couldn’t eat, sleep, or walk.

The fevers were unbearable and brought nightmares and hallucinations.

One night, I came frighteningly close to dying.

You can tell when death is coming.

I was so tired of fighting.

I was ready to give up.

My fever would not break, and Mum sat beside my bed.

She begged me to fight.

She said, “You just have to keep fighting.”

We both cried.

Somehow, I survived that night, and from there I slowly began to heal.

It took months to recover, but eventually I was okay.

On April 18th, after a three-hour labour, I gave birth to James Axl Doran.

Just under 4.5 kilograms.

Little Aries.

Perfect in every way.

Nothing wrong with him.

Not in the slightest.

A few moments after he took his first breath in this world, the nurse placed him in that awful plastic hospital crib.

As I looked over at his little face, it started to crumple.

I leapt out of that birthing bed and swept him up into my arms.

I whispered:

“Are you going to cry? Don’t cry. It’s okay. Let’s dance. Do you want to dance?”

There was a radio playing in my room.

I turned it up and we danced.

He didn’t cry.

We have been dancing ever since.

To this very day, James Axl Doran — aka Jimi Axl — is an incredible dancer.

He is the most extraordinary human I have ever known.

And he is my baby until the day I die.

This post is dedicated to my mother, Irene Ursula McCluskey.

Mum left this earth in April 2023.

Had it not been for her, both Jimi and I would have perished all those years ago.

Thank you,

Mum. x

You taught me how to be strong, at all costs.

The image above was shot on colour film.

It is one of the very first portraits I ever captured of a child who was not my own.

Right down to the wire the awards almost didn't happen in my life…

I got the images custom printed, mounted to specification, filled out the paperwork, and took them to the professional camera store that had been selected as the award drop-off location.

There, I saw a Central TAFE student’s entry and immediately started to cry.

It was a Polaroid lift, and it was absolutely stunning.

I had to ask a staff member what it even was. It looked like art.

To this very day, I still haven’t done a Polaroid lift.

I asked if I could take my photo entries back. I felt I was embarrassing myself by entering — I was only a first-year student.

Standing there with tears in my eyes, I must have looked completely forlorn. The lovely staff member refused to give the images back and reassured me I wasn’t embarrassing myself.

A few weeks later, while playing on the beach with my children, I received a completely unexpected phone call telling me I had won the awards.

All five entry photographs won a place in the book, and later I discovered that book sitting for sale at the Art Gallery of Western Australia.

I was featured in several newspaper articles and a few magazines.

Advertising agencies started calling, and I was offered the Ugg Boot campaign.

Then, within weeks, I was gone again — whisked back to life in the outback.

The image above is a black-and-white version of the cross-processed photograph that was one of the five award-winning images.

It was taken during a day at the beach when we took the children swimming at Cowaramup, just near Margaret River.

It was the first roll of film I ever put through my first professional camera, which I had taken to the beach still in its box, with the lens also packed separately in its own box.

I quickly read the instructions while watching the children paddle at the water’s edge.

The moment I saw an incredible cloud formation drifting in, I clicked the lens onto the camera body, loaded the film into the back, and shot images of my ever-patient muse, Paris-Elisabeth.

Four photographs of Paris and one image of the punks graced the pages of Site Unseen: Student Photographer of the Year Awards.

This time disappeared as suddenly as it arrived..

This time disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.

After four years living all over the Western Australian outback, Mickey got a lucky break.

Little did I know how life-changing it would be for me.

Mickey was given the project manager position on a major city road project, which meant 12 months in the city. What a gift.

I had been studying a double degree in Psychology and Women’s Studies by correspondence, with the intention of becoming a feminist writer — the next Naomi Wolf.

I grabbed this very rare opportunity with both hands, choosing an elective you simply can’t do justice to via correspondence.

My university days studying photography began here.

Fate has driven my career every inch of the way; destiny pushed me out of my stubborn resistance.

Clearly, it was never my intention to become a photographer, so the universe needed to intervene.

My lecturer was Australia’s best music photographer, and by Assignment Two she took me aside and, in a blunt yet passionate way, stated:

“Nicole, whether you know it or not, you are a photographer. Quit whatever you are studying now and go to Central TAFE and study photography!”

Of course, I argued and told her I was going to be a feminist writer.

Then, even more bluntly, she stated her opinion again, saying she didn’t give a rat’s arse what I thought I was going to be — I was a photographer.

What an amazing woman. I am so grateful to her.

Mickey’s project timeframe was extended, and I had an extra six months in the city.

I decided I would study photography for the next 12 months.

I bypassed TAFE and studied at another university instead, completing as many photography units as possible during the time I had been gifted.

Once again, fate swept in.

My lecturer at university was an iconic Australian photographer.

Max Pam — one of Australia’s most respected and revered art photographers.

His work sold in galleries in New York and Paris. Max was quite the cool dude.

My background was studying in an essay-driven tertiary environment.

I had no headspace for an artistic learning experience.

I proceeded on autopilot.

Always excellence-driven and highly competitive when placed in a classroom, I am a self-confessed marks junkie.

I chase the HD.

That’s what I did — I chased the High Distinctions.

Sometimes, when I look back, I feel regret. Perhaps I missed a golden opportunity to grow as an artist.

Or even cognitively process that I was an artist.

The truth is, I did not even consider myself an artist. It’s still hard for me to embrace that label today.

Though I clearly am an artist, and I actually hail from generations of artists in Germany.

Max was standing in the lecture room handing out the first assignment and, when I got to the front of the line, I did something 100% random and unexpected.

I will never forget this moment, though I must confess it’s only in recent years that I have looked back and recognised the social faux pas of the exchange.

I threw my hand on my hip and, with attitude, asked an impertinent question:

“So Max, what does it take to get a HD?”

Oh my god, who was that young mum?

The sexual innuendo was completely lost on me because that is not what I meant, but I didn’t consider how it must have sounded.

He looked shocked, then said:

“Bring me nudity.”

Hearing this request from Max, I suddenly became the shocked party — but I rolled with it.

He gave me what I wanted. I had the goalposts.

Off we go to shoot nudity.

This young, naive mum — fresh from a life of toddlers and solitude in the outback — simply didn’t take photos of naked people.

But I wanted that HD, so naked photography Max got.

Black-and-white shots of the frisky Danish classmate who kept asking me out inappropriately, to be precise.

To my surprise, not only did I get that first HD, I also got Max’s attention and secured his interest in my photography talent.

Further HDs followed.

I won a place on the Honour Roll in first semester, then again in second semester, and finally landed on the Dean’s List by the end of that year of study.

My analytical mind decided Max liked to push boundaries, so I studied subcultures.

Nudity isn’t my thing to this day.

Instead, I focused on telling the stories of people who walked to the beat of their own drum. I respected that and loved every second of it.

I shot drag queens, rockabillies, psychobillies, and was welcomed inside a huge drug dealer’s operation after a police raid that resulted in many children being beaten.

Humans are incredible, and everyone welcomed me into their lives so their stories could be told through the images I captured.

I learnt so much during this time, and I guess, in a unique way, I did go on my own artistic journey.

One of the things I am proudest of is that I recognised the rarity of this moment in time.

I understood that the camera is the most powerful backstage pass you can wield.

After careful thought, I decided to take my children on the adventure with me.

They went backstage with drag queens and witnessed very masculine, burly men transform into glamorous stage divas.

They met incredibly colourful punks and danced with the rockabillies.

I didn’t take the children into the drug operation, of course, but I told them about the photographs and about the bruised and battered children, sharing both my sadness and anger.

I wanted Paris and Jimi, still so little, to grow up around people who looked different.

I grew up in a multilingual home, so I was used to being different — and I loved it.

I wanted them to develop a love and understanding of people who looked unique.

To my delight, they did.

They see and accept the person beyond the façade.

They are both utterly kind to everyone, and I am so proud of them.

I am truly thankful for the opportunity Max gave me to enrich my children’s upbringing in such an unusual way.

My final assignment was a photo essay.

I was to provide six images and tell a story.

I had travelled from nudity through subcultures, swapping black-and-white as my medium for cross-processing.

By the time the final photo essay assignment arrived, I had landed in the underground Perth punk music community.

What a ride.

I would look after the babies during the day, juggle lectures when needed and school pick-ups, cook dinner for Mickey, put the children to bed, then fly out the door to the university darkroom to print for a few hours before following the punks around all night.

I shot the assignment cross-processed and, at one point, borrowed Mickey’s road-building lights to experiment with.

This resulted in one of my very first awards.

Even though the lighting gel placed over the lights to neutralise the extreme orange tungsten colour cast had actually started melting and fallen halfway off the lights at the exact moment I clicked the shutter.

Art is a journey.

The punks came alive at night, from around 11 p.m. onwards.

Let the crazy adventures begin.

I loved them.

They were young, creative, colourful, talented, passionate, and kind.

At the end of this photographic adventure, I handed in approximately 116 cross-processed images — all hand-printed under Max’s careful supervision — documenting the Perth underground punk music community.

I got my HD and landed on the Dean’s List.

Max took me aside and said some amazing words.

Two things, actually.

First, he wanted me to enter an award the university liked its ex-third-year students to win.

And second:

Max offered sincere condolences. He had hoped — and tried — to shape my talent into art photography, but to no avail.

With frustration he stated:

“Nicole, you are a fashion photographer. You might as well move to Sydney and go sell your soul!”

I was confused by the statement and, ever the independent thinker, simply replied:

“I am going to be a kids photographer, Max… but I will enter those awards.”

He chose the images.

The image above is a favourite of mine.

It was shot at the South Perth foreshore.

That’s my Jimi Axl, squiggling around in the sand refusing to stay still.

He is laughing at me as I beg him to stop moving.

He looked so cute in his blue checked budgie smugglers.

Shot on transparency film for my commercial photography assignment.

And yes — I got a HD.

Hello flame red dirt, searing heat and death adders …

Another twist of fate prevailed and due to a sad family event it was now time to leave Newcastle forever.

Mickey and I decided to pack up as many of our belongings into the Pintara I bought selling frames and trusses for my Dad, whilst studying at uni and cross the country.

Imagine a 6 month old baby, a vibrant 4 year old and a married couple, 25 and 29 years old, madly in love, heading West.

On New Years Day the road trip into the unknown was on.

Driving from Newcastle to Perth.

Mickey, ever the adventure junkie made our trip, which was fraught with deep sadness for me, into a holiday.

We went the long way around, via the Great Ocean Road.

The kids saw the glow worms. We camped the whole way.

We stopped at Esperance, the children swam in crystal blue waters and ran in powdery stark white sand.

We were on a romantic holiday, concluding with the birth of a new life.

Our car was so jam packed that I couldn’t even see Mickey,

Paris’ doll house was wedged between the drivers and passengers seat and we held hands over the top of it.

We first lived at the backpackers in a family room, if I remember correctly we had $100 in our bank account when we arrived in Perth.

I loved it there, Perth was a dream come true.

Within weeks we experienced our first set back, whilst I was out at night class, photography class ironically.

Due to a faulty oven door Jimi sustained 3rd degree burns on his tiny hands and I spent 10 days at the Princess Margaret Children’s hospital burns unit.

I felt so alone but I never left my babies side.

A few months later we were off on another, even bigger adventure.

The Western Australian Outback.

Kalgoorlie!!

Red dirt, arid landscape and amazing skies.

I spent many years in and out of the outback, Kalgoorlie twice, Marble Bar, Sandstone and Leinster.

Death Adders, extreme heat and tank water that made me sick immediately after I drank it.

This was an amazing time in my photography journey.

It’s the skies that inspired me. The clouds, the storms all set against the red earth.

Perhaps the endless open spaces were a metaphor for me, regarding life and my career?

Endless possibilities that stretched out to the horizon; a horizon even if you walk all day, every day, you never reach.

I think back on it now and think how fearless I was, crazy fearless!

I used to pack the little ones into the car and drive 40 minutes out into the middle of nowhere, I discovered an abandoned sheep station with amazing back drops.

Rusty shearing sheds, weathered timber fences, old farm buildings.

I would load the camera with black and white film and shoot portraits of my beautiful babies.

I was hyper focused on black and white film and how it strips back all which is superfluous. I was soon to add cross processing to my obsessions.

I distinctly remember one afternoon throwing the kids and camera gear into the car in blind panic. The sky had suddenly turned to an almost black, cloaked in dark green haze, a huge storm was charging in.

Hail clouds! 

Lightning splintering down from what seemed like everywhere.

The wind was squalling from every direction, gusts the could move you as you walk.

It was approaching twilight and that’s is when the Kangaroos roam.

It isn’t the safest time to drive and you need to stay vigilante.

That day however, I had to drive that station wagon like a bullet bolting down a barrel. The storm chasing right behind us. It is that moment you must decide, what’s worse, a roo smashing through the windscreen and tearing me to pieces. Or hail smashing all over the car, flash flooding and being stranded with Mickey totally unaware of where we were.  

Put the pedal down and pray!!

Those outback days were the ultimate adventure, sometimes scary but absolute freedom. 

Where my love for environmental portraiture was born. 

A gift. 

The image above is a cross processed double exposure, shot in Sandstone, a few kilometres from the sheep yards.

It features Paris-Elisabeth, my most giving photography practice subject.

Thank you Paris-Elisabeth Eden!

Love you forever,

Mum x

When I first made the decision to include a blog on my website, I decided I would tell the story of my life via my journey into photography.

The stages of my career are illustrated by the images I captured at that particular moment in time.

This is the story of the adventure I have been on, without even knowing I was on it.

And so it begins … my life long love affair with photography, my beloved career and the very core of my identity.

Through a twist of fate, whilst pregnant with my second child, I was given my first SLR camera, a Pentax with a Sigma lens.

At this point I was a stay at home Mum, 25 years old and married to the love of my life, Mickey.

We had a new born baby boy whom I had nearly lost carrying to term and a 3 year old little girl.

Mickey, a 6 foot 4 civil engineer/surfer, worked in Sydney at the forestry commission and we lived very contently on a tight budget in our first home.

Every day as a Mum was a happy little adventure and when money allowed, I could purchase one reel of black and white film.

It was such a luxury to buy that reel of film and so exciting to have it processed.

A little piece of magic.

The image above is from one of those first reels of film.

My Jimi Axl, shot at Scarborough Beach, Perth, Western Australia.

I took my children to play at the beach every day and that limestone rock Jimi is sitting on, was affectionately named the Bat Mobile.

Lacking money didn’t stop us 3 from having fun every day!!

At this fledgling stage of my career, I had no real technical skills to speak of.

So much so, that I did not even realise I could turn off the on camera flash.

I did however have good timing and could really see the moments as they past by my lens.

The flash in this image haunts me to this day!!!

But you have to start somewhere and I am so very grateful for this image.

I took my film to be processed at a small pro lab and after going there for a short time the owner took me aside.

He said “Nicole you should become a professional photographer.”

I will never forget that day.

I didn’t feel complimented, I felt confused.

As I walked the children home, his words whirled around in my head and I distinctly remember thinking, I can not be a professional photographer, I am a Mother!

Whatever this thing is, that people have referred to as talent when they look at the images I produce, has been present from the very first reel and I am ashamed to say I have given it no regard.

At the time I simply couldn’t see it.

However, my endless passion about being a Mother and for my children, kept me seeking the capture of those organic, never to be repeated fleeting moments that happened each day as they grew and thrived.

For some reason I have always had an innate sense that the clock is ticking.

An awareness time isn’t endless.

Very few things are forever. So I wanted to freeze time. Just stop the world for a second.

Now that I look back I see all I took for granted and am so grateful I have each and every image; especially every precious memory these photographs spark.