I once stumbled upon a photograph called Lower Paradise Valley taken in 1925 by American landscape photographer Ansel Adams when reading one of my favorite books called ‘On Photography’ by Susan Sontag.
The innocence of the landscape, the purity of the light standing against the darkness of the valley – the composition alone was enough to catch my breath. It feels low to the ground, with not much sky to breathe with, making the mountain pull forward and off the frame. The lack of sky made the mountains feel heavy, distorted, yet perfectly aligned. There are dark, hidden spots layered in the details, and yet the eye still feels at ease.
I love this photo, and I love photography that challenges my initial eye – that makes me pause and ponder a thought or feeling.
Sontag also talks about changing the language of photography – and asks us to stop saying we “take’ a picture and instead say we “make” one. The shift inspired me to play with perspective and to consider my own framing of photographs and landscapes to tell a story.
In a world where we’re encouraged to capture everything from the ordinary to the extraordinary, we must never forget that we’ve been empowered with a gift: a visual voice to tell stories from our perspective. Each photo reveals a perspective, a time, a story from an individual’s life that nobody else could tell. This is the quiet, yet beautiful power of photography.
Capture the fleeting
‘One cannot possess the present, but one can possess the past’, said Sontag. A camera in any shape or form quite literally gives us the ability to record history: a moment that can never be revisited beyond the depths of pixels or film.
Almost 5 years ago, my cousin was born with a misshapen bone in his skull. But there’s something quite beautiful in this depressing story. Before he had surgery to fix the bone placement, my aunt Zia insisted he get baptised, the first sacrament for Catholics.
(My cousin before his surgery – captured in a moment of faith. Photo by Sofia Tripodi (2020)
The baptism was during the COVID-19 pandemic, so we stood a distance apart and held an untraditional ceremony at home, outside, in the cold. I brought my camera that day, and with it, I took a photo that I’ll forever hold in my heart.
I hadn’t been able to hold the baby or be close to my cousin at all. Yet through the lens, I captured the close, intimate moment when he was blessed. The tension in the air, the worries of the family as this small child was about to undergo major skull surgery – the uneasiness flowed away in the pour of water. I was sealed to faith in the cross oiled upon his head. I can feel those emotions and see the scene every time I look at the photos.
And now, as I hug that healthy, 5-year-old smiling boy, I ponder his bravery and growth. With great strength, he pulled through one of the greatest challenges of his past and is now well on the way to a bright future.
This picture didn’t just preserve memories – it held everything we couldn’t say out loud in that moment: fear, faith, family, and hope.
Notice the micro beauties
I cannot count the number of times I see something and feel a certain rush to take a quick picture. Maybe it’s fueled by my subconscious gravitating towards something in my surroundings.
It may seem silly, but in our contemporary world, where we spend so much time concerned with our individual lives, we should make a point to take a second, breathe, and look up at the sky.
One day, when I was 16, I was practicing driving with my dad. It was getting dark, and we pulled up next to a small lake in a quiet residential area. The sun was setting, and all you could see was the dark outline of the landscape met by a glistering lake. Looking back, the photo still makes me smile – that rush, that joy, the limitless possibilities of the sky. The light forced us to focus on a central point, yet the scattered reflection across the water made everything feel expansive.
(A sunset moment I’ll never forget. Photo by Sofia Tripodi, 2020)
I noticed the tiny movement of the ducks, the outline of trees I hadn’t seen in daylight. It wasn’t about capturing a specific object – it was about being fully present in the atmosphere. A truly comforting image.
Centre yourself within the present
The habit of taking pictures moves beyond slowing me down. It’s a form of grounding, centering yourself within the present.
A recent example was a night out with my friends, where we went to a local festival. As they were filming, I noticed how our shadows stretched along the grass as we walked into the path of some lights.
I made everyone stop as I snapped a photo. It may not be the best shot, but in that exact moment when we crossed into the light, we were facing our shadows. It felt almost intentional.
We had gone through recent challenges, and our friend group had grown smaller. But that photo reminded me that we were together. These friends meant the world to me, and I’m grateful to have all those memories summarised in one image.
(A moment of my friends and I on a night out. Photo by Sofia Tripodi, 2025)
Carry stories forward
Without realising it, there’s always an aspect of the photographer within the photograph. Even when you’re telling someone else’s story, you’re the one creating the frame – shaping it through your own perspective. Whether I’m a narrator or a second-hand listener, I’m always telling a unique version of the story.
One project close to my heart is Unlearn Disrespect, recently presented at Western Sydney University’s Parramatta South campus. It was a cross-collaboration art piece between staff and students, designed to open conversations about respectful relationships.
I created photographs of our community’s faces to display opposite the written words and drawings on the wall. I felt a deep responsibility to reflect on the people, their relationships and the unity between them during this process.
I helped to create a story of inclusion, displaying the faces in the University community who believe in equal, respectful relationships. I felt honoured to tell this story, proud to contribute to the beginning of the narrative, and hopeful seeing individuals standing together for a collective cause.
(Project Respect:
Unlearn Disrespect, Photo by Sofia Tripodi, 2025)
Project Respect:
(Unlearn Disrespect, Photo by Sofia Tripodi, 2025)
Being interested in photography since 14, it’s fair to say I have an abundance of terrible photographs in my camera roll. From sky shots to my sports photography phase, to now: professional studio and corporate work. As I build my portfolio, I often stumble upon these old photos. It’s like reading an old journal.
Nothing compares to that feeling of rediscovering forgotten moments.
If you ask me, I’d say composition is the most beautiful part of a photograph. It’s the balance – or purposeful imbalance – between subject, light, and space that feels endlessly captivating.
