Hi, I’m Jefferson Davis, I’m a photographer. It still feels a little absurd saying that out loud sometimes, like confessing a quirky habit at an awkward support group meeting. “Hi, my name is Jefferson, and I’m a blind guy who insists on taking pictures.” But here I am, more than five decades into this wild ride on planet Earth, still hauling cameras around and clicking shutters, even as my vision fades.

It all started way back when I was just one day old. I contracted spinal meningitis in the hospital, a brutal infection that nearly ended my story before it really began. I survived, but the damage was done. It triggered Septo-Optic Dysplasia, a condition that destroyed my left eye in infancy and set off a slow, relentless optic atrophy in my right. Over the years, that right eye has dwindled to about five degrees of usable vision, a tiny peephole into the world, and nothing at all in the left. It’s progressive, irreversible, and one day, likely soon, that small window will close completely. But here’s the honest truth: I’m grateful for the sliver I still have. It lets me glimpse shapes, contrasts, and colors in a way that keeps me tethered to the visual world I’ve loved for so long.

Molly Burke, the advocate and podcaster who’s built a platform around her own blindness, put it perfectly in a recent discussion (paraphrasing from memory): the physical challenges of not seeing are tough, but the social side of blindness, the stares, the assumptions, the isolation, is often the real gut punch. I couldn’t agree more. The cane, the fumbling, the daily adaptations? Those are hurdles I can navigate. It’s the way the world sometimes reacts that stings the deepest.

I still vividly remember my first few trips to the local coffee shop after my vision loss became obvious and I had to use the white cane. I’d walk in with my white cane tapping ahead, and the entire room would fall silent. Conversations halted mid-sentence. I could feel the eyes locking onto me, the unspoken questions hanging in the air: “What’s wrong with him?” “Is he really blind?” “Why is he even here?” The awkwardness was suffocating. It took weeks before the regulars adjusted. Eventually, the stares turned to nods, then smiles, then jokes. We started chatting about the weather, the latest news, or how strong the brew was that day. That shift felt like a small victory. But getting there required me to push through the discomfort, to show up anyway.

These days, the white cane is practically an extension of my arm. I don’t flinch when people stare or whisper. Until I receive a guide dog (and yes, I’ve had plenty of well-meaning folks ask when that’s happening), the cane is non-negotiable for safe, independent mobility. In the blind community, there’s a quiet understanding that guide dogs often carry less stigma.  They’re seen as “heroic” or “inspirational,” while the cane can still evoke pity or confusion. But I refuse to let outdated attitudes dictate my choices. I go where I want, when I want, cane in hand, no apologies.

Now, to the part that really baffles people: I’m blind, and I still photograph. When I sling an old film camera over my shoulder, I can practically hear the mental gears grinding in onlookers heads. “Wait… he’s blind. Why is he taking pictures? How does that even work?” I’ve been interrupted mid-shot more times than I can count, strangers stepping right up, genuinely puzzled or sometimes skeptical, asking exactly that.

The answer is straightforward, at least to me. I’ve been making photographs for over 40 years. Some of it was casual fun, some professional gigs, but all of it rooted in a deep love for capturing moments. Losing most of my sight didn’t erase that passion; it just changed how I pursue it. Think about it this way: if you’d spent decades playing golf, perfecting your swing, chasing birdies on the green, dand then lost your vision, would you quit the game entirely? Or would you adapt, find new ways to feel the club, hear the ball drop, sense the course? Of course you’d try to keep playing. Photography is my golf. It’s the thing that lights me up, keeps me engaged with the world, and gives me purpose.

It’s not easy anymore, and I won’t sugarcoat that. I can’t see what’s in the frame most of the time. Shutter speeds and aperture markings? Forget it, unless I pull out my 22x magnifier, squint hard, and hold it up against the lens, those tiny numbers are a blur. Focusing is guesswork, composition relies on memory and, muscle memory, and sometimes just instinct. I frame shots based on what I think is there, drawing on decades of sighted experience. I listen to the sounds around me, feel the light on my skin, remember the layout of a familiar spot. Every click is a leap of faith.

And yet, when the film is scanned onto the computer, there’s magic in it. My wife helps me review them, and together we decide what works. Some images surprise even me; others capture exactly the feeling I was chasing. One day, when that last bit of vision is gone, she’ll still have those negatives, those files, those frozen slices of time. That’s enough for me.

Of course, not everyone gets it. The skeptics are the hardest to deal with, the ones who watch me pour creamer into my coffee at the same shop I’ve visited hundreds of times and decide they’ve “caught” me faking. They don’t realize I’ve memorized the counter layout, the position of the sugar packets, the pour spout on the creamer jug. It’s adaptation, not deception. I’ve had ophthalmologists, neurologists, specialists galore confirm the extent of my vision loss. But some people seem determined to prove otherwise.

I’m always open to genuine questions, though. If someone approaches with real curiosity, ”What’s the cane for?” “How do you know when to click?”, I’m happy to chat. Kids are the best at this; they haven’t learned to filter or judge yet. They’ll walk right up, point at the cane, and ask point-blank. Those conversations are gold. They remind me that education happens one honest exchange at a time.

The “why are you even bothering?” crowd, though? That gets old fast.

I’m not alone in this pursuit. There are perhaps a couple dozen known blind or visually impaired photographers worldwide—creative souls like Pete Eckert, who shoots conceptually from memory and imagination; Evgen Bavčar, whose work explores photography as a conceptual language; Alice Wingwall; Henry Butler; and others who’ve turned limitation into innovation. Some rely entirely on sound, touch, and visualization; others, like me, cling to that remaining bit of sight. We’re a small but stubborn group, proving that the urge to create images doesn’t vanish when eyesight does.

For me, it’s about holding onto joy. Photography keeps me connected to people, to places, to the fleeting beauty of everyday life. Even if I only glimpse a fraction of the 24x36mm frame on film, that fraction matters. It keeps me alive in ways nothing else quite does.

So yeah, I’m a blind photographer. It’s a contradiction that makes perfect sense to me. And as long as I can hold a camera steady, I’ll keep shooting. The world can stare all it wants, I’m too busy chasing the next shot in the dark.