From the time I gained an interest in photography, nearly ten years ago, I have never had a hard time photographing people until this last week. I have never been shy taking pictures of people, but after seeing the pain that the Hatian people experienced I realized there was a solemn line that I would not cross to get a picture.

This realization came as I walked along a hillside street that had been devastated. Literally torn apart by the quake. Nearly all of the houses on the street had fallen leaving only death and destruction. As I walked along the roadside with Chener he pointed out the houses that had collapsed and told of his friends who had lived there and now were gone. He showed me where his girlfriend had lived and the rubble where she is still buried. As we walked a little bit further a grey truck pulled beside us on the bulldozed dirt road. He spoke to his friends in the truck while I stood by not being able to understand the language. As Chener spoke to his friends in the truck an older Hatian man approached and began to explain his loss. Now the five or so people in our group had gathered around the front of the truck and listened as Paul translated. The older man explained that his two daughters had been lost in the quake. One was twenty, the other was twenty-two. As he pulled two pictures from his pocket, perhaps the only physical reminder left of his daughters, tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Through tears he struggled to explain that he had raised them as a single father and the bright future they had. I couldn't help but share in the grief he felt. My emotions were overrun and with my camera in hand I thought of raising it to take a picture of the ravaged man but couldn't; the moment being too emotive and grave and his shattered heart being so frail for such trivial things.

That is when I realized some moments are are better left unphotographed allowing only the past feelings shared with others to serve as a memories.