Only Final, Not The Last

A Continuance of Seeing

If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, this would be it—My Final Photo.

I’ve carried that thought with me every morning for more than two decades. It isn’t meant to be morbid. It’s meant to be a reminder that the time to look closely is always now. That there’s never a guarantee you’ll have another chance to experience what unfolds right in front of you.

Some people have asked why I call it My Final Photo, and not My Last Photo. The difference matters to me. Last suggests something conclusive, an abrupt curtain drop, something finite. Final implies a moment of pause in a longer continuum. A photograph that completes one day’s experience but doesn’t declare an ending to the whole story. It acknowledges that tomorrow might bring something new, and if it doesn’t, this picture was still part of an ongoing practice of seeing.

That practice has taken me places I never thought I would go. On a humid summer evening, it led me to an outdoor stage, where audience members strummed toy guitars and beamed like they were headlining an arena. The youngest boy, in striped shorts, couldn’t help leaping into the air mid-strum, tongue tucked in concentration. Around him, the adults shared the same unselfconscious joy.

Other times, My Final Photo has appeared in the quietest corners of the day. Like the lone fisherman standing under the dense canopy of a riverside thicket, his tackle spread around him like a ritual. He was a small figure against the rich green darkness, but he seemed perfectly at home in his solitude.

On a different afternoon, I found it in motion: a long racing shell gliding past another fisherman, eight rowers moving as a single body while he watched from shore. They crossed paths by chance, both engaged in their focused pursuits. Neither seemed to notice me.

One of my favorite photos was a spontaneous wave from four people in a turquoise convertible, their sunglasses catching the afternoon light. They looked utterly alive, as if the moment itself was enough reason to celebrate.

And then there are the gatherings: a hillside concert, a hundred people in folding chairs, all craning to see the musicians. In the foreground, a woman’s silver hair shines as she lifts both arms in applause. The man beside her raises his hands too, a mirrored gesture of appreciation. If you looked at only their backs, you might think they were teenagers again.

This is why My Final Photo is never really about photography in the traditional sense. It’s not about the perfect composition or the most dramatic subject. It’s about proof, about evidence that I chose to pay attention today. Evidence that, if this were my last day, I noticed something worth remembering.

I don’t know how many more of these photos I’ll get to make. I don’t know which will truly be the final one. But that uncertainty is what makes the practice meaningful. It means there’s no room for waiting around for inspiration or saving my curiosity for some other day.

My Final Photo is a commitment to the idea that there is always something more to see. The ordinary world, when observed with intention, reveals a thousand unrepeatable moments. That if I’m lucky enough to wake up tomorrow, I can begin again, looking for what is new, different, and better.

By confining myself to making photos in Westerville, I get to help build community. I share my observations not as an outsider searching for novelty but as a neighbor who cares about the ordinary rituals of this place: the concerts under the brick arch, the fishermen along the riverbank, the road crews, and the convertible parades.

When you photograph the same streets and parks year after year, you stop seeing them as backdrops. They become characters in the story. And you realize the small daily scenes—a sidewalk wave, a child’s leap, a moment of applause—are what hold a community together.

Making My Final Photo here is not about limiting myself. It’s about rooting myself. It’s about participating in the everyday events of the city and honoring them simply by paying attention.

And if I don’t wake up, the last frame won’t be a conclusion. It will be the final piece in a long record of having paid attention, a reminder that seeing is not just an act, but a way of moving through the world.

That’s why it isn’t called My Last Photo. Because it isn’t about endings, it’s about continuance. It’s about the promise of what you might see next if you only remember to look. It’s about experiencing every day and making photos of it.