For the people who don’t love being photographed and still want beautiful images.
Welcome. You are in a safe and friendly space.
I’m Kelly Ferguson (also Ferg or KFerg), the photographer behind Ferguson Avenue Studio. My background in dance deeply shapes the way people are photographed here. Years of movement training taught me how to read body language, to understand posture, weight shifts, tension, breath, and flow.
At my core, I am a dance photographer.
Not only of formal dance but of the everyday choreography of being human. Dance lives in posture, in subtle gestures, in the way someone folds their hands, or reaches out for a hug.
It is why portraiture and headshots can feel just as dynamic and compelling to me as capturing someone mid-leap. The most thrilling part of the work I do as a photographer is in the noticing.
Noticing you, and creating images that reflect an authenticity and honesty you may not have experienced in photographs before, but have quietly hoped for.
It’s okay to want images of you that you love! I want this for you too. So hear me out with this next thing I’m going to tell you.
You don’t need to lose weight first. You don’t need to wait until your hair grows out.
Yes, there are thoughtful ways to prepare so you feel your best but none of those things should be what holds you back, okay?
Allow me to walk you this. We’ll take one step at a time.
xo
Ferg
A twist in my spine, and my story.
This is me at twelve years old, recovering from scoliosis surgery in 1992. I had a Harrington rod fused to my thoracic spine, a procedure that ultimately ended my ability to keep training and competing in gymnastics. I’m smiling in this photo, but losing gymnastics and certain physical abilities as I knew it, was devastating.
No one could have explained then how deeply I would grieve the loss of this version of myself, how long it would take to feel strong again, or find something I could love with the same resonance and depth. Before and after my surgery, the highlight of my month was the arrival of International Gymnast magazine, a portal back into a world I deeply missed. These pages were my lifeline.
What you don’t see in this photo are the posters and photographs of gymnasts that covered my closet doors and bedroom walls. Without realizing it, I was developing my photographic eye and preferences for what would influence my work decades later.
Losing gymnastics was a deep grief, a loss of identity and the closing of a beloved chapter. That grief still shapes what I notice and choose to honor in the photos I make today. Whether I’m photographing gymnastics, portraits, or my own family moments; I’m drawn to the small, tender glimpses of vulnerability and strength—alongside the sense of a bigger journey unfolding. For me, being a photographer is more than making pictures for a profile page; they’re a way of marking a chapter in someone’s life and the meaning it holds.
