Ana Olivia

One of my earliest memories with my first photography mentor, Maira, was with an impromptu experiment to witness which photograph I was visually drawn to. She laid out a set of prints, both in black and white and in color, and laid them across the classroom table. No names, no titles, no context, just feeling.

It did not take long for me to fixate a photo that was taken inside a dilapidated laundromat. The foreground displayed cleaning items and rolling carts fallen onto the floor, as if the customers left in a hurry. Other buildings laid in the background of the photo, passing the front door of the laundromat on a sunny day. Yet, I felt like something was off. It was not because of the eerie atmosphere, rather, some details left behind that made me question the truth of the scene.

Why are there only two fluorescent lights hovering above? How do the front-load washers and dryers function with no coin slots or buttons? They didn’t. This was all staged by its photographer.

I was sixteen at the time I discovered photographer Lori Nix with this print simply titled Laundromat. Nix is infamous for her highly detailed dioramas she built and captured in her studio. Following her work throughout the years, I was always mesmerized at the dedication with each paint stroke, faux natural elements, and lighting techniques pulled together to create striking imagery. My interest in small scale, product and macro photography did not begin at that point, if anything, it allowed me to visually express one of my interests during my upbringing.

My love for miniatures started long before I ever picked up a professional camera. As a young girl, I was always fascinated by Polly Pocket toys, dollhouses and figurines. The tiny, carefully crafted worlds that my uncles, who were architects, built for their current working projects blew my mind, knowing that they would exist in a couple of months in the real world. I would spend hours arranging miniature furniture, adjusting the lighting in small spaces, and studying different techniques when creating something so tiny. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was training my eye.

Working with inanimate objects for product photography demands precision. When everything is so small, every flaw is magnified. A slight misalignment, an overlooked speck of dust becomes obvious. I learned to slow down, to observe closely. I developed patience for careful adjustments—moving something or camera angle in just millimeters at a time to get it exactly right.

That same mindset now defines my work in research medical photography. In medical research, the subjects are often small, intricate, and complex—tissue samples, surgical procedures, microscopic structures, subtle variations in color or texture that carry critical meaning. Just like with miniatures, lighting is everything. A slight change in angle can reveal structure or obscure it. Focus must be precise; there is no room for approximation. My role is confidential, quiet but essential in helping researchers communicate discoveries, help medical educators train future physicians, and ultimately help improve the quality of care available to patients.

My early fascination with tiny worlds shaped the way I see the real one. It taught me to look closer, to value precision, and to understand that all the small things (IYKYK) often hold enormous significance. What began in childhood during playtime matured into my work time in adulthood.