Vulnerability and inspiration

One of the biggest breaks I ever received was the opportunity to interview Jim Marlowe. I’d seen his work and I knew his name, but I’d never made his acquaintance. That is, until the day he stopped by the marketing office to drop some photographs off for the magazine.

I introduced myself and we talked for a few minutes. I told him of my love for photography and he sat down. We visited for a few more minutes before he realized how much time had passed and then he left abruptly with minimal explanation.

A couple weeks later I called Jim and asked if he’d consider letting me write an article about him for the magazine. It would be a feature piece, a human-interest story, a personal profile. He considered for a couple days and then reluctantly agreed.

I visited with Jim in his home studio one afternoon. With my pen in hand and my tape recorder recording, I listened intently to Jim’s story.

He shared a story of hope and heartache, victory and defeat. As a boy, he tragically lost his father in a coal mining accident. His mother worked hard to raise the family on her own. When he was old enough, Jim enlisted in the army, where he served as an army photographer. Not long after, Jim experienced a spiritual awakening that lead him to return to school and earn a degree in biology. For more than 20 years he served as a biology teacher at an inner-city school during the week, and a photographer on the weekends.

A quiet and reserved man by nature, Jim went places with his story that I never imagined he would go. At one point his voice began to quiver, he lifted his head toward the ceiling as if he was talking to Heaven, and then buried his face in his hands and wept uncontrollably.

Never had I seen such passion and vulnerability and love from an artist.
Who was I, a 22-year old relative stranger? Who was I, who after a few vulnerable hours, he trusted to share his whole life story in print for 40,000 eyes to read.

The impact Jim’s story had on my life was enormous. Today, I’m still telling stories, but now it’s with my camera instead of my pen. And I’ve discovered what Jim taught me to be true, that whether with the camera or the pen, the story is still just as powerful.

Occasionally I bump into Jim at church or around town, but we haven’t talked in years. I’m pretty sure he has no idea how much he inspired me. I should go tell him.