It’s hard to remember a time before I took photographs. My first camera, a hot pink rectangle that ran on 110 film, was amongst my favorite possessions as a child. I’d loop the thin white rope around my neck and snap away at anything deemed worthy of immortalization: my dolls, the backyard, the stilted man at Pier 39. Most of these shots were fuzzy and boring—often too close or crooked, many featuring my own gap-toothed smile. I don’t remember cataloguing and sorting my photos with any sort of voracity. Mostly, it was about pushing the button, hearing the click, relishing the notion that the image had been captured.   My urge to record moments only increased as I grew older. I have boxes of…