Photographer. Listener. Documentarian.
Ask your grandma about the year she moved into this house, and watch her eyes change.
That's the photo I want.
Not "smile for the camera." Not the stiff line-up at Thanksgiving. I want the half-second where she's not thinking about the camera at all — she's back in 1974, or remembering your grandpa's laugh, or bragging about a garden she planted forty years ago.
I'll ask the questions. You just be there with her.
And I'll photograph the things too — the chair he always sits in, the handwriting on the recipe card, the doorknob she's touched ten thousand times. Because the story isn't just faces. It's the whole life built around them.
The shoebox
When my grandparents died, my family sat for hours going through plastic tubs of their photos.
Every celebration, every year, every version of them — laid out across the table.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized something: I wanted to be the person who does this. Who preserves people. Not just what they did, but who they were.
That doesn't stop mattering as someone gets older. It gets deeper.
We spend so much time remembering what used to be — the woman she was at twenty-five, the man he was before the war, before the kids, before any of it. But she's still in there. He's still in there. The person holding all of those memories is sitting right in front of you, right now.
That's who I photograph.
This is not just a photoshoot.
It's a conversation with a camera in the room and I call it a Story Session.
Here's what that means:
I'll ask real questions — about the house, the marriage, the kids, the job, the year everything changed. Not for a script. Because the answers show up on their face before they show up in words.
I'm not photoshopping the moment away. The tears, if they come. The laugh lines. The hands that have done sixty years of work. That's the whole point.
I photograph the person and the proof of their life — the coffee mug, the armchair, the photo on the fridge, the yard they've kept for decades. Because someday, those things will matter as much as the face does.
And if you want more than photographs — I work with a trusted collaborator who conducts a deeper life-story interview and turns it into a written narrative or keepsake book. Your loved one's own words, in their own voice, alongside the images.
You already know the feeling of wishing you had one more photo of someone, one that actually looks like them, not just a phone pic from a birthday party three years ago.
Let’s make sure this chapter doesn’t disappear.
Hey, I’m Alli
I'm a mom, nurse, healthcare program manager, and wannabe DIYer. I like live music, swimming in lakes, and reading. I have a potty mouth. I like drinking red wine in the winter, gin in the summer, and whiskey all year round. I love Emperor's New Groove and Quentin Tarantino films. And nothing makes me happier than a pile of nachos.
By day, I run a palliative care program — so I spend a lot of time with people at the edges of life, and their families. It's taught me that there’s no better time than right now to slow down and soak it all in. It's also taught me how much people wish, after someone's gone, that they'd asked more questions while they had the chance.
My Philosophy
You are loved, right now, as you are — showing up in every line, every gray hair, every part of you that's lived a full life to get here.
I won't photoshop that away. If you'd like a pimple or coffee stain gone, that I can do. But your body is perfect the way it is, because it's keeping you alive — and that's pretty damn special.
This is about bookmarking life so that you, your loved ones, and the generations ahead can keep these memories close.
Ready to capture their story?
Now booking for 2026 and 2027.