She had vitiligo, and she had spent a long time before her wedding thinking about photographs. Not about the dress or the hall — about the photographs, and what she would look like standing in the middle of them.
The work took a while. The goal was never to erase anything; it was to even the light across her face so that the camera would read it the way a person standing in front of her would.
When it was done she looked in the mirror and cried. Then she walked into her wedding hall and had her picture taken, over and over, without flinching.
She could walk in and take photographs with confidence. That is not something you forget easily.
People ask what the proudest moment of a thirty-year career is. It is usually assumed to be a prize or a big booking. It is this, and things like this.