American inventor Danny Hillis photographed in his New Hampshire home. Hillis is creator of the Colock of the Long Now: a project to design and build a 10,000-year clock. © Brian Fitzgerald

This past fall, I had the opportunity to meet and photograph Danny Hillis—renowned inventor, engineer, author, and scientist—for the Financial Times. Hillis is cofounder of the Long Now Foundation and the designer of a 10,000-year mechanical clock.
The lead time was short—days, not weeks. I arranged to meet him at his New Hampshire home between his international trips.

Creativity at work: a chalkboard in the Hillis home. © Brian Fitzgerald

The Clock of the Long Now is designed to operate for ten millennia with minimal human intervention. It’s being constructed in Van Horn, Texas. The foundation’s mission—and the clock itself—is to encourage long-term thinking and policy planning. Hillis had several small components he’d built and tested that we could photograph. His home reflected that same inventive spirit, with what seemed like echos of the clock’s design woven throughout.

I was given no specific direction. I knew I wanted a range of portraits and, if possible, to show him at work. Being on his home turf would help keep him at ease.
I had two hours, which quickly became ninety minutes.

Danny Hillis. ©Brian Fitzgerald

Moving quickly, we made portraits in several areas of the house. As I began packing up, he returned to work. I asked if I could photograph him in his home office. His desk was covered in papers and books—an inventive mind unconcerned with tidiness. That became the portrait the Financial Times published.
I always walk into these situations with a clear idea. But flexibility matters.

Often it’s the unplanned detail—the messy desk—that reveals the person and carries the story.

Danny Hillis. © Brian Fitzgerald

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John Bradley, Colorado. Mixoid Liposarcoma. © Brian Fitzgerald

I’m excited to announce our lineup of Baring Scars Project shoot dates for 2026, beginning with our first:  Friday, February 20, 2026.

The Baring Scars Project is a portrait and storytelling project documenting men living with and beyond cancer. Through intimate portraits and video interviews, the project reveals the visible and invisible scars left behind.    Baring Scars is meant to challenge the silence many men carry around illness, vulnerability and survival.    Through a series of studio shoots in our Portland, Maine studio and location sessions in partnership with organizations that support men in their cancer journey, we create space for connection and honesty.

We’re more than halfway to our goal of 50 portraits and are going strong.  Many of the stories can be seen on the Baring Scars Project page, or our dedicated Instagram and Facebook channels.

So if you know someone who would benefit or be interested in participating in the project, please share this post and these dates with them:

Friday, February 20, 2026

Friday, April 17, 2026

Friday, June 19, 2026

Friday, September 25, 2026

Anyone interested in may apply to participate or can contact me via the form below.

If you are part of an organization that serves men with cancer and are interested in hosting a shoot outside of Maine this year, we’d like to talk about how we can make that happen.

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Long before he began designing cars for Honda and building his own watch company, Jason Wilbur designed—and played—his own electric guitar at the age of 16, shown here in the hayloft of the family barn. ©Brian Fitzgerald

As a New England based editorial photographer, I get the opportunity to meet and photograph some amazingly talented people.  People like Jason Wilbur, an automotive designer turned luxury watchmaker.  From a laptop and a desk in his Vermont home, Wilbur created timepieces that probably cost more than your car (certainly more than mine).   It’s easy to see why, with his automotive-inspired and space-age aesthetic blending into muscled yet sleek works of art.

I met Jason and photographed him for an article in the Financial Times.  We made portraits in his work area and around his property.  Almost as an afterthought, I asked to see his family barn.  That’s where I took the last portrait of the day, with Jason holding the hand-built guitar he made as a teen.  It was so cool to see the Times choose this as their lead image–it’s also my favorite.  I think it captures a mood and environment that hopefully reveals a bit more of Jason too.

Jason Wilbur, 50, photographed at the property his family has owned for decades in South Londonderry, VT. ©Brian Fitzgerald

Jason Wilbur in the studio he calls “The Treehouse”.  ©Brian Fitzgerald

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Maine Coast Fishermen’s Association shoot in Portland, Maine. © Brian Fitzgerald

Finally able to share some of the images I created for the Maine Coast Fishermen’s Association this winter.

Fishermen—and the working waterfronts they depend on—are a defining part of Maine’s culture and identity. Those tied to the fishing industry work in challenging, ever-changing conditions, both at sea and on shore.

That’s why I was excited to collaborate with a team producing a video story about the journey from a net in Casco Bay to a plate in a local restaurant. In just one day, we photographed on the water, at the fish exchange, in a market, and behind the scenes in a busy kitchen.

This is the kind of human-centered visual storytelling I love—partnering with organizations to highlight real people doing essential work.

Maine Coast Fishermen’s Association shoot in Portland, Maine. © Brian Fitzgerald

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Isaac Marston, Testicular Cancer survivor. © Brian Fitzgerald, Baring Scars Project

The last thing I wanted was to be seen.

Not for something like this, completely out of my control. 

Many people get cancer—an estimated 2 million in the U.S. alone 2024—but every story is unique. 

My own cancer came in late 2015.  A routine scan for a kidney stone led to surgery, and suddenly, I was missing part of my right kidney. A rare cancer, they told me.  No apparent cause, no warning.

Then, it was over—the surgery, at least—but not the worry, the scans, or the realization just how fragile life is.

I minimized it and took to calling it “cancer with a little ‘c'”.  But it definitely changed me and still does.

There’s a moment when we all have to face our mortality and that was mine.  My wife went back to school to retrain for a job, in part to support us in case I had a recurrence. 

I dealt with it by throwing myself into work and filling my life with trivialities and busy work.  

But every time I looked in the mirror and saw the scars—or felt the phantom itchiness as my scars continued to fade—I was reminded: it could have ended up so differently.

In 2020, I saw Trevor Maxwell’s name come across my feed. Trevor and I had worked together briefly at the Portland Press Herald. He was younger than me, a dad with two girls, a husband. And now he had stage IV Colon cancer.

I regret that I didn’t contact him right then.  What do you say to someone fighting for their life?   Months later, I saw that he was starting a podcast—Man Up to Cancer. A space for men facing cancer to connect.  A brotherhood.

So I reached out. We talked about his fight—not just one battle, but many. I photographed him under the ancient oak tree on his family property he called his shield.   Trevor mentioned his scars then. Not as things to hide, but to celebrate.

That’s when Baring Scars was born.

The idea: Photograph 50 men with cancer. Let them tell their stories. Show their scars—not just the physical ones, but the strength, uncertainty, and resilience they carry.  Isaac Marston, whose photo is above, was the first person I photographed (read more about Isaac’s story here).  

Men have worse cancer outcomes than women. Not just because of biology, but because of how we deal with illness. We tend to ignore pain. To delay seeking help. When diagnosed, we isolate.

Baring Scars challenges that. It’s about connection. A visual statement: You are not alone.

At first, I wasn’t sure men would step forward. But they did, over and over.  They told me this was self-empowering.  That they wanted other men to see what survival looks like.  That they wanted to inspire others to keep going.

This project is for them. For the men fighting cancer right now and for their loved ones.  For the organizations working to change outcomes.  For the men who think they are alone.

If it encourages even one man to seek help, to get screened, to reach out—it will have been worth it.

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Last month, I had the chance to photograph Dr. Joan LaRovere, Associate Chief Medical Officer for Transformation at Boston Children’s Hospital, for The Financial Times of London.

 

LaRovere is co-founder of the Virtue Foundation, which harnesses AI and data science to improve healthcare access worldwide, particularly in underserved areas. Inspired by her work at MIT Sloan and Boston Children’s, she’s launching a data-driven platform in 2025 to map healthcare needs in 72 low- and middle-income countries, helping clinicians allocate resources and address “medical deserts.”

 

We met at MIT Sloan, where LaRovere earned her Executive MBA and began to scale up her foundation’s impact. My goal was to capture several distinct portrait looks, balanced with elements of MIT (and Boston, if possible). Navigating crowded halls, armed with gear and pressed for time—common constraints for an editorial photographer—we worked together to create portraits that I hoped would give a sense of LaRovere and her work.

 

It’s inspiring to meet and photograph people like LaRovere, whose work impacts health outcomes for so many around the world even as she saves individual lives back in Boston.

 

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Joan LaRovere, photographed at MIT’s Sloan School of Management.  © Brian Fitzgerald

 

Joan LaRovere, photographed at MIT’s Sloan School of Management.  © Brian Fitzgerald

 

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Judy Camuso, Commissioner, Maine Dept. of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. © Brian Fitzgerald

 

© Brian Fitzgerald

Over the past year, I photographed Commissioner Judy Camuso of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife (MDIFW) as she experienced Maine’s natural landscapes through different seasons. These portraits reflect her deep connection to the outdoors and her commitment to conserving the places she loves.

Since being appointed by Governor Janet Mills in 2019, Judy’s leadership has gained national attention. Now serving as President of the Association of Fish and Wildlife Agencies, she represents conservation efforts across North America, focusing on wildlife policy, funding, and collaboration between agencies.

Judy’s roots as a wildlife biologist run deep. From her early days at Maine Audubon to becoming the first Maine commissioner on the North American Wetlands Conservation Act council, her career is built on a passion for protecting nature. Whether she’s in the field or at the table with policymakers, her connection with and dedication to Maine’s wildlife is clear.

© Brian Fitzgerald

Being able to capture these images of Judy in her element—hot, freezing cold and in-between—was such a pleasure.   I love environmental portraits like these because the locations themselves tell such an important story about the subject.    As such, it’s important to take the time to find the right spots well

before shoot day, and then be prepared with options in case of last minute schedule changes,  late-season snowstorms and other unplanned events.      My hope is that these portraits capture just a bit of Judy’s love of the outdoors and her deep sense of responsibility for Maine’s wilderness.

 

 

 

 

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© Brian Fitzgerald

 

© Brian Fitzgerald

 

© Brian Fitzgerald

 

© Brian Fitzgerald

 

© Brian Fitzgerald

 

 

 

© Brian Fitzgerald

 

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Hardhat and ladybug © Brian Fitzgerald

I met with the marketing director of a non-profit for coffee this week to discuss a pending project. Face-to-face meetings like this rarer now, even more than a year after the WHO pronounced the Covid-19 Pandemic officially over. He mentioned he’s noticed that the way people interact has changed—not always for the better.

Aspects of his job, like mine, can’t be done remotely and must be done in person. Eventually we talked about AI tools. When he started—in the mid 2010s—he was told how critical Excel skills were, yet much of that can be easily done with AI. “Remember when they talked about retraining coal miners to code? Now ChatGPT 4.0 can code better than most coders,” he said.

That gave me pause. In my photography and video world, AI has made retouching and editing easier. For planning and pre-production, it’s an indispensable tool. But I don’t worry about it replacing what I do. While AI can create credible portraits of non-existent humans, it can’t replace the process of connecting with a person on a human level. With AI there’s no exchanging of stories. AI is all about results, not the journey.

Storytelling and moment-driven portraits are the outcome of an in-person process. Visual storytelling is about the dance between the camera, photographer, and subject. An AI prompt requires you to know exactly what you want, but a good portrait or documentary requires sensitivity, a willingness to listen, and the ability to ask questions you don’t yet know the answers to.

AI is a tool, not the main event. Connecting over coffee, walking in nature, or capturing a true moment—that’s the good stuff. I’m not willing to trade that experience for expediency. The antidote to AI efficiency is to do what it can’t—be more real, more authentic, more connected, and more human.

 

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Before the storm © Brian Fitzgerald

 

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself randomly picking up photographic gear—a power cord here, a light meter there, a reflector, stowing a canvas backdrop—and I realized I was way too tired to finish.

I’d spent the last three hours photographing and interviewing a man I barely knew, diving into one of the most traumatic events of his life: his diagnosis and treatment for kidney cancer. It left him with a body carved by deep scars and other, less visible wounds. Every detail of his experience so firmly etched into his mind that he’ll never forget them—down to the type and order of food he had each time he was in the hospital. “It kind of feels like PTSD,” he said, with what could have been a smile—or maybe a wince. “That’s exactly what it is,” I replied.

Later as I packed up my gear, my studio looked like a camera shop after a direct hit by a tornado. I reflected on how fortunate I am each time I’m allowed, with my microphone and lens, into someone’s most private inner world. It’s a trust that’s both shocking and deeply humbling. Once you hear someone’s story, you become the keeper of a sacred trust. It’s now part of your story, and what you choose to do with it matters. When you connect with someone in this way, you’re left a bit raw and exposed. It’s messy, just like the chaos of my studio, filled with reminders of the session that just was. When you connect in this way—exchanging stories of truth—you’re both fully involved in creating a new story, a new understanding. I’m grateful to be connected in this way, both through the camera and in spite of it. What emerges, whatever else, is a truth.

This discipline, this art, this field is unlike any other. That’s why I still do it, day after day, decades after buying my first camera–a Pentax K1000, at K-Mart. The tools change, but the parts that matter still matter.

 

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