Eva Mercer

I’m Eva Mercer—a photographer, visual storyteller, and lifelong artist who sees the world through layers of shadow, soul, and story.

Before I ever picked up a camera with intention, I was a broadcaster in the U.S. Air Force, telling stories through sound and movement. Later, I found my way into journalism, working as a photojournalist for a small-town paper in West Virginia. That’s where I first learned the weight of a moment—the kind that can’t be staged. The kind you feel before you ever see it.

My work lives somewhere between editorial, documentary, and conceptual. I’m drawn to the emotional undercurrents beneath the image: the quiet between poses, the breath between frames. Whether it’s a portrait, a still life, or a fleeting street scene, I photograph what feels true—not just what looks good.

As a neurodivergent woman, an Air Force veteran, and a survivor of systems that tried to silence me—religious, domestic, cultural—my work is a reclamation. Every image is a kind of resistance: to erasure, to expectation, to the pressure to be anything but fully human.

Over the years, my creativity has spilled into other mediums—painting, sculpture, mixed media. But the thread remains: I make art to process what can’t be spoken and to help others feel seen in what they thought was unseen.

Now based in Central Pennsylvania, I live a full, layered life as an artist, mother, and wife. My work has been exhibited in galleries including EVAC in NYC and the Laguna Art Gallery in California. But more than accolades, what matters to me is connection. If my work helps someone feel understood, remembered, or a little more whole—that’s the measure of success.

My work moves between portraiture, conceptual photography, still life, painting, and jewelry—whatever medium lets the story come through.

It always begins with a feeling.
A weight. A flicker. A question I can’t name but can’t ignore.
Sometimes it’s tender. Sometimes it burns. But it always asks to be seen.

Photography is the thread that runs through it all—my first language of light, shadow, and presence. But some truths need paint. Some want metal. Some live best in stillness. So I follow them where they lead.

I don’t create to impress. I create to invoke.
To stir something in the body. To surface what’s been buried.
To offer a reflection that feels more like recognition.

My work has hung in galleries—and I’m proud of that.
But I don’t make for approval. I make to connect. To process. To hold space for what’s been hidden, and to let it speak.

Every piece is its own frequency. A quiet reckoning.
And if it reaches you—then it did its job.