Pedregal always sounds like the Pacific thinking out loud waves folding against cliffside stone, the tunnel holding one last breath of shade before the light opens. Amanda and Chris chose that light for an elopement that felt less like a production and more like a confession: small, sincere, the two of them and the closest circle of family.
They’re both models, which only mattered in the way the camera understood their bones and posture immediately and then forgot, because the better part of them was how easily they loved. Her dress was elegant and exact, the kind of line that doesn’t need explaining. The arrangements were simple, beautiful on purpose: pale florals, soft candles, enough to honor the moment without speaking over it.
Getting ready happened in a quiet suite facing the sea. Window light pooled across the floorboards; the surf kept time. Amanda let the makeup stay close to who she is clean, luminous, nothing pretending. I photographed her hands smoothing fabric, the practiced way she fastened an earring, the unpracticed way she went still when someone said Chris’s name from the next room. He dressed with that calm that reads as steadiness in photographs jacket, breath, smile he couldn’t quite put away.
The ceremony faced the ocean. Family formed a tender semicircle, close enough to hear small laughs and saved breaths. The wind lifted a tendril of hair across Amanda’s cheek and she let it be. Vows moved between them in low voices, private but not secret. The kiss found its shape without reaching. I stepped back and let the horizon draw a line behind them while the candles flickered in the breeze and went brave again.
We kept portraits simple: terrace edge, the sea drawing silver into the afternoon, their silhouettes soft where the light met the water. I asked them to walk, then to stop, then to forget me for a minute. They did. He tucked a strand behind her ear; she could have thanked the wind for the excuse. The pool gave us a second, quieter version of everything reflections holding the sky while they turned toward each other and away from the world.
Dinner was a long, modest table that knew exactly what it was for. Glass caught the last of the color. Laughter moved around like a warm animal someone told a story twice because it felt good to say it. I watched hands: a mother’s thumb circling a napkin, a father tapping a rhythm on the stem of a glass, Amanda’s knuckles relaxing on the back of Chris’s chair. When the toasts came, they were short and right. When the music came, it was just enough.
For the last frame, I set them where the arch of the tunnel opens to the Pacific and asked for stillness. “Hold,” I said, and they did foreheads almost touching, her dress finding a small current of wind, his hand easy at her waist like a promise already kept. Click. The ocean answered with its endless, even breath.
Months later they called to tell me they’d had a baby, and could we make photographs in December. I thought of the candlelight, the soft edge of the sea, the way their family made a room feel smaller and safer just by standing in it. Some days ask for spectacle. This one asked for love to be simple and it was.
