Jestem Kate. I am photographer.
And I do weddings.

When I introduce myself like this, I often see a slight disappointment in people's eyes.

As if they expected to hear: war, nature, street. Something with World Press Photo in the background.

And here? Cakes. Bouquets. Shot list from auntie.

I could explain that weddings are one of the hardest genres of photography. That it's 8 hours non-stop where every second is unrepeatable. That it's simultaneously document and art, reportage and portraits, theater and truth.

But why bother? Some will only see the white dress anyway.

I remember the day I stopped explaining. The bride – instead of the standard "thank you for the beautiful photos" – said something strange: "I won't forget how you held my hand and reminded me that this was our day."

Reminded? But it's obvious it's their day.

Unless it's not.

I observe weddings from the inside.

I see how your own day becomes a performance for others, often near-strangers. How "it's always been done this way" suffocates "we'd like it different."

How the bride cries, but not from emotion, from exhaustion of playing consecutive roles: granddaughter for grandma, daughter for mother, friend for bridesmaids, daughter-in-law for mother-in-law, dream fiancée for husband.

And for herself?
For herself, there's no strength left.

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In my family home, everyone graduated in economics. Me too.
I worked a corporate job, had a plan for a safe life.

But I chose uncertainty.
No, that's not true. Uncertainty chose me.

It's the one that makes me ask uncomfortable questions: Do you really want this dance? Why do you need guests you don't like?
Whose wedding is this anyway?

My specialty?

Photographing moments when people forget they're being photographed.

When the bride's father goes out for a smoke, though he quit years ago.

When the groom's mother touches up her makeup after her son said "I love you" – but not to her.

When the bride hugs her mother longer than usual, as if apologizing for growing up.

When the groom's confident face briefly reveals a stressed boy.

Someone will say: that's unprofessional. They're right.
A professional executes an order. Completes a list. Delivers a product.

I do something else. I document humanity that happens to occur at weddings.

I catch truth between poses. I find beauty in imperfection – because in perfection I mostly see lies.

I don't call myself an artist. Artists create from nothing.

I only observe and press the shutter when life arranges itself into a frame.

Maybe that's exactly why I choose weddings.

Because here, between "what people will say" and "what it truly is," between ceremony and honesty, you can see most clearly that fragile line where playing stops and being begins.

I live in Poland. With husband, son, and dog in inventory. I travel for work around the world, but always return to my crew.
They remind me that life isn't just frames to catch – it's also breakfasts as three, walks with the dog, and a son who asks every evening
"DID YOU TAKE PHOTOS TODAY?"

In my free time I do underwater portraits, because sometimes you need to dive deeper to see differently.

Uncertainty is a good start.
But certainty that I have somewhere to return to – that's the foundation.

Nie nazywam się artystką. Artyści tworzą z niczego.

Ja tylko obserwuję i naciskam spust migawki, gdy życie samo układa się w kadr.

Może dlatego właśnie wybieram śluby.

Bo tu, między "jak wypada" a "jak jest", między ceremonią a szczerością, widać najwyraźniej tę kruchą granicę, gdzie kończy się granie, a zaczyna bycie.

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Mieszkam w Krakowie. Z mężem, synem i psem w inwentarzu. Pracuję na całym świecie, ale zawsze wracam do mojej ekipy.
To oni przypominają mi, że życie to nie tylko kadry do złapania – to też śniadania we trójkę, spacery z psem i syn, który każdego wieczora pyta
"CZY ROBIŁAŚ DZISIAJ ZDJĘCIA?"

W wolnym czasie robię podwodne portrety, bo czasem trzeba zanurzyć się głębiej, żeby zobaczyć inaczej.

Niepewność to dobry początek.
Ale pewność, że mam gdzie wracać – to podstawa.