Photographing a Soldier’s Heart: The Most Important Images I’ve Ever Created

I’ve pondered posting this article since I started writing for Fstoppers over a year ago, but it never seemed right. I thought about sharing the story on Veteran’s Day, on Memorial Day, on either the anniversary of my friend’s birth or of his death. None of these timings ever seemed right. Maybe that’s because it was still so fresh in my heart. Maybe I felt like it was too personal to share. But I figure it’s a story that needs to be told, especially on the heels of President Trump’s signature on an order that aims to improve mental health options for our brothers and sisters returning home from the “playground of war.”

Last week, President Trump signed an order that automatically enrolls US Armed Forces veterans in mental health care programs through the Department of Veterans Affairs after they leave the service. This is a big deal. Anyone who knows me wouldn’t call me a Trump supporter, but this is something that is much needed, and I hope it helps. An estimated 20 veterans commit suicide every day in the United States. And one of them was my friend.

Jacob David George, a farmer from small-town Arkansas who entered the military at a very young age, served three tours Afghanistan in the U.S. Army. When he came back, he wasn’t the same. Suffering from what he called "moral injury" from what he saw and was ordered to do in his service, he went through every single mental health program that the V.A. offered. He attended every class, every training, all of the therapies that they had. But none of it was enough to heal him from what he described as “moral injuries” during his service. 

So he turned to art for his healing. 

He wrote poetry, and he started writing songs and playing music. When I met him, he was embarking on a nationwide bicycle ride he called “A Ride Till the End,” where he would travel the country via bicycle, meeting with anti-war veterans and peace activists, singing his songs, and sharing his stories — while absorbing theirs — with a goal to do this until the war in Afghanistan ended. A few years of this took a toll on him both emotionally and physically, and eventually, he put the ride on pause, staying at home in Arkansas over the winters. At one point, he returned to Afghanistan as a peace activist instead of a soldier in an attempt to reconcile with the Afghan people and gain a deeper understanding of the impact of war.

Eventually, the musical aspect of his self-healing became more influential, and he recorded an album entitled “Solider’s Heart.” What we now call Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or P.T.S.D. (though Jacob didn’t use the word “disorder;” he thought it not to be a disorder so much as a natural response to one’s conditions) is what we used to call “Shell Shock,” which is what we used to call “Soldier’s Heart” during the Civil War era. The out-of-date term is more fitting, I think. The more medical and longer-syllabled version of today doesn’t lend itself to the emotional connection and empathy that hearing about someone’s “solider’s heart” creates. In the album he tells stories of his service: of running into his childhood neighbor on an Afghan mountain; of the time he was flying a kite on a rooftop; of visiting a land-mine museum; of throwing his medals at the gate of a NATO summit in Chicago 2012, surrounded and protected by veteran brothers and sisters of many wars past. He talks about why he doesn’t like to be called a “hero” or to be thanked for his service. And he does it all in a tune familiar to those he grew up around: a “hillbilly conscious-folk with a pinch of bluegrass, storytelling, and resistance.”

And here is where the photography aspect of this story comes in. Jacob asked me to create some images for him for his album, both for the album art and release party fliers. I’m always honored when a friend asks me to do photography work for them, but this was different. It was a situation where I wasn’t just being trusted with making someone look good, or helping their business succeed, or other situations where photography is useful. I was helping him heal and spread his message of love and peace, connecting with him on a different level, and getting to see his passion and fire for what he was doing.

So we created a series of portraits together. Some were in the studio where he recorded his album. Some were in a local park, with his foot on his rifle or with it in the broken-down configuration that’s common to anti-war veteran symbology. And then, at his album release party, I took photos of him and his loved ones performing, putting their souls on display for anyone to see.

And that’s it. Those two short portrait sessions and one live event were the only chances I took to document his story.

I’ll never forget the middle-of-the-night phone call I got from his cousin, my best friend, who was in India at the time, telling me what had happened. He was 32 years old.

And I’ll never forget the hugs from his mother, or his sister, thanking me for the photos that I had taken of him. 

When I was putting together the slideshow that would play on loop when we celebrated his life, I realized how important these images were going to be; not only to his family and friends, but to me as well. They were the best photos anyone had of him at “the end.” They’ll always remain in my portfolio, I think, because they mean so much to me. Taking those photos was one of the few times we had time one-on-one, and even though I didn’t know him half as well as I’d have liked to, he was one of those people that you’ll never forget, that you instantly feel at home with, that seems like a long-lost brother. And now all I have are the words and melodies he left for us, the memories I created with him and for him, and the images that were a part of that. It has been over three years since that phone call. As of this writing, to me, those images are the most important images I’ve ever taken, and the ones I cherish the most.

It’s easy to forget that we, as photographers, are creators of memories and documenters of histories. Our cameras are tiny time machines with the power to freeze moments that, someday, will be cherished by so many others. It shouldn’t only be when a tragedy occurs that we realize the power of what we’ve created, and we should put our souls into every image we create. Even if something isn’t important to us at the moment — a random business headshot, for example — that image may be the only one of quality or might be the only recent image of a person if something happens to them. 

Keep creating, and do it with love and with purpose. If you do, you’ll end up with more than just a picture.

_____

If you or someone you know would like to listen to Jacob’s music, click here, or visit www.jacobdavidgeorge.org to learn more about him.

I’ll be donating any proceeds I receive from this article to support his legacy to the project which funds the continued production of Jacob’s album and books, and their delivery, for veterans who need them but cannot afford them.