Why Documentary Photographers Should Listen More Than They Photograph

Needing to tune out the world around me—lawnmowers humming, neighborhood kids making the most of their final days of freedom before returning to school—I slipped on my noise-canceling headphones, opened the music library on my phone, and prepared for a brief escape.

I chose an album I hadn't listened to in several months, one that had become a trusted companion during my six-year, 350,000-mile journey across America for my In Search of America project.

The album was Don Henley's Cass County. One by one, the songs unfolded, each with its own character and story. Then "Waiting Tables" began to play.

My heart opened wide.

As the first notes filled my ears, memories flooded back with remarkable clarity—faces, conversations, roadside diners, small-town cafés, and the people whose lives briefly intersected with mine. The images arrived as vividly as the lyrics themselves, carrying me back to a journey that, in many ways, never really ended.

Over the years, diners and family-owned restaurants became far more than places to eat. They became places to pause, observe, and listen. If you wanted to understand a town, there were few better places to begin.

The people behind the counter knew everyone's name. The customers often did too. Farmers, truck drivers, retirees, third-shift workers, young families, and travelers all found themselves sharing the same room, if only for a little while. I was usually the outsider—the one just passing through—but before long, I felt as though I'd been invited into a small piece of someone else's world.

I was always drawn to the hours most people tried to avoid: before sunrise or long after dark. Those were the moments when the masks seemed to come off. Conversations became quieter, more personal. People seemed less hurried, less concerned with appearances, and more willing to simply be themselves.

Sitting here now, I find myself wondering if there isn't another story waiting to be told—one centered entirely around these places. I have a feeling that when I finally return to the road, the diners themselves may become the journey.

“She married a boy as soon as she got out of school

But he turned out to be a reckless fool

Gone are the days when she was worry-free

Now she's a single mom; she's only twenty-three”

The song brought me back to a photograph I made early in the In Search of America project—a young waitress on her first day behind the counter. Her story was almost a reflection of the lyrics I was hearing.

Immediately, my mind returned to that moment inside a Waffle House many years ago. I remember asking if I could make her photograph. Then, as I often do, I asked a simple question: “would you tell me your story?”

She did.

How many women's lives echo the story behind that song?

How many times have we sat in a diner or restaurant, accepted a cup of coffee or a plate of eggs from someone, and never stopped to wonder who they are beyond that brief interaction? What struggles have they carried? What hopes are they holding onto?

I've always tried to ask.

And when someone chooses to share their story with me, I do the only thing I know to do—I listen, with my heart wide open.