Say WHAT?

When you’re in an industry that involves working with a variety of people, it’s pretty much guaranteed that you’re going to run into a few idiots. This section contains a sampling of, as the title infers, stupid things that clients, or prospective clients, have said to me.



“For $400, you said I get six hours of shooting with you and your assistant. Do I get a CD of images with that?”

“Since we’re not getting married any more, can I use our retainer fee toward a different purchase?”

“My family members want to take photos as kind of ‘backup photographers.’ That’s ok, right?”

“ We have decided to go with someone else. I found out over Christmas that my mom's relative actually does photography. You can't beat a family deal.”

“There will be friends of mine who are photographers that will take pics for fun.”

“You said that you were going to contact me, so I didn’t call you when we cancelled our wedding a few months ago.”



As an added bonus, a "less stupid and way more weird thing" a bride once told me.


"One of our best friends was murdered a couple of years ago and my fiance's brother was just charged with killing him. He's not very close with his family. I don't think they'll be at the wedding."

The "Aspiring Photographer"

Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for this post. It was created by a Des Moines photographer, whose name I won’t mention (unless he threatens a legal action because I stole his work of genius).

Any professional photographer understands the frustration of trying to market their services to the public against the “aspiring photographer.” You know who I mean. But just in case you live in a small hole inhabited only by those nasty little Asian beetles, and don’t know what I mean, please read on. The following was found on Craigslist under “Services Offered.”



Hi there! My name is Lindsay and I've just got a brand new camera for Christmas but haven't even taken it out of the box. I really want to get into the wedding photography business because I see so many people in our area are getting married and it looks like easy money. I can't guarantee that even one photo will turn out looking good but I sure will try. Some pictures will be used for my portfolio and my future website. I start booking appointments this week! I am now booking for Spring and Summer of 2010.

I specialize in all types of Lifestyle photography including:

Weddings – You'll have to pay $15 for gas money outside of Fremont
Bridals
Engagements
Families
Children
Portraiture
Fashion

My style is classy, elegant and artistic. I would be honored to be part of your special occasion or photography needs considering I have no professional experience. I would love to capture those beautiful moments for you and your family.

I have so much passion for being a pro wedding photographer! All my friends and family tell me I take great pictures at all our outings and picnics. I'm putting together a web site of all the flower pictures and sunsets I've taken so you can see how good I am. I even have a few pics of my pet dog which turned out really great!

But I don't have a business license, liability insurance, flashes, extra batteries, or even more than a kit lens that came in the box. If something goes wrong, you're out of luck. To keep things cheap for you, I won't even back up any of your images. Less cost for me means less cost for you. Just passing the savings on. I expect to be paid in cash or personal check because I don't plan on claiming this income on my taxes.

I know many fun and beautiful locations. I really care about making brides look beautiful! I add glow and selective color to all of my images, giving them the best look possible. No need to hassle with computer programs.

Bridals and Engagements are only $100. Please trust me to do your wedding. I'll do it cheap just to build up my portfolio. I will only charge you $250 for your entire wedding day. This is a deal. My camera cost me $700 brand new. All sessions include a Hi Resolution CD with FULL copy right release included, which means you get to print your pictures at Wal-Mart! Here's the BEST Part! I offer 100% guarantee on ALL my sessions! Don't pay a cent until you are 100% happy with your pictures!

I own a camera therefore I can take photos like the pros, who charge alot more. Most brides in Nebraska spend $2,500 on professional wedding photography. Since I have no experience I'll only be charging $250 (90% off regular wedding photography prices) to shoot full day wedding coverage.

Think about it: Pros charge alot of money because they have alot of expenses. I don't.

Pros have:
-a business license
- multiple cameras
-thousands of dollars in lenses and flashes
-hard drives to back up the images
-insurance
-experience
-people skills
-color calibrated monitors
-professional print labs
-professional albums

I have none of this stuff so we'll keep it cheap, just for you!

Oh and don't worry if you go to my website and hear illegally copied music. If BMI sues me I should still be able to do your wedding.

Best of all: no contract required!

E-mail me if you want to set an appointment or if you have any questions, I will gladly respond.

School Days III

Curt Stahr was the head of the college’s photography department, as well as the owner of an established photography company. His experience benefited us in more ways than just what he had learned in the business, because he also allowed his student to borrow his equipment. He thought nothing of loaning a ten thousand dollar telephoto lens to a student who wanted some good sports pictures, or lending a set of studio lights to set up in a kid’s garage.

He was quirky in the same way that I image all great photographers are. He had wild, white hair and a long pointed beard that conjured up images of a mad scientist whenever I saw him. He was a fantastic teacher who never failed to entertain us.

On our first day of class, he had put together a slide show of photographs. We moved through the photos fairly rapidly as he gave brief descriptions of each one. There was one image in particular that we found interesting, so Curt gave us some background information.

“That man sitting there is George Mathew and next to him is Harriet Wimfley. They met in high school and dated all through their school careers. After graduation, however, they went their separate ways, got married and had families. About twenty years later, they met again at a class reunion. They were both widowed at that time and realized that there was still a spark between them. They spent some time together and eventually married. This photograph was taken at their twenty-fifth anniversary.” He smiled at us. “Wasn’t that a nice story? Who here thinks that was a nice story?” We all nodded our agreement. Still smiling, he asked, “Who here believes that story?” It was an odd question, and we nodded less enthusiastically. “Well, I just made it up. Good story though, huh?”

Though he had a desk in our classroom that was intended for his use, Curt was rarely there. He had a habit of disappearing during our classes that motivated us to form search groups that scoured the halls for him. In the main hallway outside of our class, there was a bench that sat opposite a large flat screen TV. This was affectionately dubbed Curt’s “office.” If he wasn’t in class, it was a fair guess that you would find him watching the news and talking to passers-by. The problem came, however, when the passer he wanted to speak to didn’t come by, and he headed down the hallway after them. Once he was out of earshot, we rarely found him.

While Curt was a man who understood the merits and techniques of digital photography, he had been raised on film, and he stuck to it for most of his personal use. His photography business, Interpretive Photography, used digital only when requested. This preference made him a bit of a novelty in the wedding industry, and he did very well.

Curt Stahr was not only a talented businessman; he was also a very talented teacher.

Our classroom was a pleasant jumble of work tables and half completed projects without much for defined areas. One afternoon, I was looking for some notes I had misplaces and I discovered, underneath a stack of old photography magazines, an award plaque naming Curt as the “International Educator of the Year.” I showed it to my classmates and we just shook our heads.

We put it back where it had been and went back to working. He never mentioned it.

Over the course of my photography studios, Curt taught most of my classes, including Photojournalism, Travel Photography, Studio Photography, as well as overseeing my Independent Study.

I was always very insecure about my photographic abilities because I had little to compare it to, but I continued to get straight A-s and high praise from all of my teachers. Things went very well for me until I enrolled in the Advanced Photography course.

I showed up the first day and discovered that this was not any old advanced photography course, this was advanced film photography, and I was a completely digital shooter. I didn’t even own a film camera, let alone know how to use it. I panicked, sure I would fail and destroy my flawless GPA. I ran home and gasped my way through an explanation to Paul, who called his father and arranged to have me borrow an old Minolta that his parents owned.

While the first catastrophe had been averted, I soon discovered that I was embarrassingly behind my classmates in what they considered intro knowledge. While all of my peers were learning the finer points of sepia toning, I was struggling to learn the basics of film development. A compassionate classmate took pity on my ignorance, and strove to teach me not only some helpful tricks, but also darkroom etiquette. On my first trip to the darkroom, I was perplexed by the black, revolving door that led into the work area. I was informed that it was considered polite to knock twice on the wall of the door before entering, to let the other students know you were coming in, and then knock twice again before getting out.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a handful of red lamps, and was filled with the rush of water that came from the tub where finished prints were washing. It smelled so strongly of chemicals that, for a moment I was overwhelmed. I was sure I would never be able to concentrate with such a pungent odor surrounding me, but after a few days I was surprised to find myself so accustomed to it that it was hardly noticeable.

There was a strange camaraderie that settled over us while we worked. We discussed philosophy, politics and pop culture over the fixer trays, and kidded around like we’d known each other forever. The dim lighting created a faint sense of anonymity that prompted us to disclose more than we might have otherwise, and the constant movement from developer, to stop bath, to fixer, to wash, created an ever-present escape route for anyone who wanted to exit a conversation.

We depended upon one another, whether we liked each other or not. Trusted each other to monitor chemical temperatures, and to remember the time when we would get distracted in conversation and fail to recall how long our print had been in the fixer bath. It was a peaceful dependence that deepened in our damp cave-link environment to something resembling family. When we stepped out of our stations and back into the “real world” there was still a faint affection for one another, but it wasn’t ever quite the same, and we lingered as long as we dared.

But even with the generous help from my classmates, by the third project, I was far behind. Borrowing negatives from my classmates for practice, I had finally mastered the art of enlarging and developing prints, I couldn’t seem to get the hang of developing the film.

Developing film involves open the film canister, cutting of the last frame, and feeding it into a stainless-steel spool. It was placed in a developing canister, topped with a plastic funnel to seal against the light, and covered with a lid. All in complete darkness. Not even the red lamps fro the darkroom were allowed here, for even that tiny amount of light would ruin a batch of negatives. Once the film was safely in the canister, however, it was a simple process of going through the different steps of adding chemicals, agitating and rinsing, and finally removing the negatives to hang in the drying cabinet. A deceptively simple process.

In the classroom, surrounded by the lights and conversation, I was fine. But when I was in that pitch-blackness, there was something in me that panicked and I couldn’t get the film onto the spool, let alone into the canister. I would lose my focus, mis-wrap the film and end up dropping then entire thing on the floor.

I was just about to give up, when I began practicing rolling the film with my eyes closed. There was something about that one single action that suddenly made it easy for me. The next time I needed to develop a roll of film, I just closed my eyes, and the film spooled perfectly.

Now that I had finally mastered the last hurdle, I was beginning to enjoy myself. I stayed after class even when I didn’t have to and eventually became so good in certain techniques that the classmates I had begged for help were now coming to me.

At the end of the class, my final project, a hand-colored photogram, won “Best of
Semester.”

The World of "Pro"Photography

After graduation, Paul had continued his job as a contractor. It was good money and his hours were flexible. In recent months, however, amid the distress of the economy, construction had taken a turn for the worst and Paul found himself spending increasing amounts of time at home.

By this time, we had been married for over a year; a year I had spent, blissfully, at home. As a new wife, I enjoyed keeping our small apartment in order, running errands, and keeping up on my school work. Our shrinking bank account, however, prompted us to re-visit the idea of me going back to work.

During high school I had been employed at only one job, a daycare, and had continued in a similar line of work during my work study while at Drake University. There were numerous daycare facilities in the Ankeny area that would have been more than happy to take me on, but I had been hoping to find a job more closely related to my major.

I perused the classifieds in hopes of finding the perfect job, but to no avail. I passed over the ever-present ads calling for “professional photographers” to work in the chain studios found at every shopping mall, thinking I was above such “unskilled work.”

After several weeks, however, I resignedly applied for the studio position at a local department store. I was called, interviewed, and subsequently hired. I arrived on my first day to learn that there were a number of training videos I was required to watch before I could actually start working.

My boss, a perky little blonde woman in her late twenties, energetically showed me to a computer. She made sure I had paper and writing utensils “in case I wanted to take notes” and gave me a series of directions before bouncing back to the reception desk.

I struggled not to roll my eyes.

The training videos consisted of a tall, rather girlish looking man staring into the camera and giving nuggets of photography wisdom, accompanied by a toothy grin that made me want to vomit a little. He went over the proper usage of studio equipment and what to do if a little kid bites you, before getting to the real meat of the presentation: posing aides.

The smug video presenter now employed a colorful cartoon drawing to help drive home the posing instructions. “Always use the posing aids provided in the manner in which they were designed, he advised, grinning all the while. “And only use one at a time. For example,” he explained, obviously horrified at the very idea, “never place a child atop a posing cub placed in the wagon on top of the posing block.” He waved a finger at this invisible audience. “Such posing could result in serious injury to the child.”

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, shocked. “Here I had no idea, and that was going to be my first pose!” It was obviously a very good thing that I was watching this information so vital to my success as a photographer.

The following tutorials involved proper protocol for if a tiny person was to throw up on your shoe or trip over your power cord. By the end of the day I was so filled with knowledge that my head felt close to bursting. I was handed a list of equipment names to memorize and send on my way.

I was terribly excited to return to work the next day.

Now that I had absorbed all of the information that could possibly be needed to be a successful photographer, we began the real training. My employer would point to a piece of studio equipment and I would have to provide the name and function of the indicated item. This proved to be rather difficult, as most of the names I was expected to remember, were entirely made up and usually bore no resemblance to their actual title.

After my morning quiz, I was temporarily abandoned and told to shoot “something creative” until someone was free to attend to me. Later, I was given a fifteen minute lunch break, and was allowed to observe a more experience staff member run through “the sell.”

When the customer’s wallet had been thoroughly milked, they were sent on their way, and I was instructed in the art of “selling.”

When they sit down, scroll through all of the images and then go back to one of the collages.” For the uninformed reader, it is important to understand that the photo collages cost twice the average price. “Tell them that the collage is your favorite one, or that you love their child’s’ smile in that photo or something.” I nodded, though I had already decided to ignore that particular strategic tool. “And when you go through the different packages we offer, make sure you explain that the more expensive the package, the greater the savings.”

After a few more “tips” I was told that I could go.

In the following days, I was tutored in the finer points of studio photography. These particular department store photo methods varied widely from what I had learned in college, but this was “real world” photography, and obviously much for effective and efficient than the studied, time tested, “artsy” photographic strategies I had learned in college.

I was taught the art of “creative angles,” and given tips on how to best hold the attention of hyperactive toddlers. Every once in a while the tips worked, but usually they didn’t. Maybe I was untalented. Maybe I was unmotivated. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that every child I was assigned came in screaming “I don’t want to have my picture taken! I don’t want to! I don’t want to! No!” Regardless of the reason, I was now taking three Aspirin before clocking in every morning.

Soon, I was expected to make my own photo sales. One afternoon, a young woman with a baby came in for her daughter’s six month portraits. When she was taken in to the studio room, one of my coworkers poked her head back out the door and hissed “She has a coupon!” before disappearing.

At this point, I didn’t understand why this should matter, so it was quickly explained that employees are graded on a point system that determines when and how much they get raises. Low print sales, like customers wanting to use coupons, bring down an employees average. Consequently, no one wanted to wait on low-ordering customers.

Sensing a way out, they patted me on the shoulder and pushed me in the direction of the sale’s table. “This will be good experience for you. Remember to push the collages.”

I had just started in on my sale’s pitch, when the young woman held up her hand. “I’m really not interested in all that stuff. I just want the pictures that come in the $10 package.”

“Ok.” As I started to fill out the order form, I noticed one of my coworkers frantically waving her arms to get my attention.

“Explain the packages,” she mouthed.

I nodded, and then continued to filling out the form. She didn’t want a package; she wanted to use her coupon. Judging from her slightly outdated wardrobe, she wasn’t rolling in cash. Working with a budget was something I understood all to well, and I knew that we made a killing selling print packages at outrageous prices. I wasn’t going to be the one to rip her off.

I was just preparing to take her payment, when a hand landed on my shoulder. The blonde-haired saleswoman from Hades had arrived to take over. “Why don’t you go practice in the studio for a little while,” she suggested. “I’ll finish up here.” Hardly waiting for me to vacate the chair, she sat down and immediately launched into the “proper” sales pitch.

I will admit to eavesdropping on the rest of “the sell,” and also to feeling a smug satisfaction when my employer wasted nearly ten minutes trying to talk the woman into a $200 package, and eventually had to give up.

After an angry lecture later in the afternoon, I was feeling less smug.

When I returned home later that evening and repeated the day’s events to Paul, we both decided that maybe it was better that I work somewhere else. It was one thing to have a stupid job, but it was quite another to have a stupid job bent on ripping people off.

I explained my position to my boss the next day, and told her that I was through.

I had realized that chain studios like this one revolved around sales, not around photography. Unfortunately for me, I had gone to school for photography and I was, as a result, a rather mediocre sales person.

As we parted ways, I admitted that she deserved some recognition for what she had accomplished. It takes a special sort of person to be successful in child photography. It required someone authoritative, but friendly. Someone knowledgeable, but silly. Someone with unlimited reserves of patience. But I was not that person.

School Days II

Intro to photography is a prerequisite for almost every photography course known to man and, as a result, I had to wait until the following semester to enroll in additional courses.

The only Photoshop class that had openings started at six PM. I wasn’t overly excited about taking an evening class, but reluctantly enrolled. The first day of class, I was annoyed to discover that the class was comprised mostly of middle aged men and women. Recently married and new to the city, I had hoped to find a group of young people with whom I could cultivate friendships.

“There are more retired people in this class than there are at bingo night at the senior center,” I whined to my new husband a few days later. “And every time I turn around, there are more, they’re just coming out of the woodwork!”

“Huh,” replied my ever supportive husband.

“Huh? HUH? Is that all you have to say?” I demanded, irritated that he didn’t share my frustration. I attempted to pace the living room of our small apartment, but it was still cluttered with wedding gifts and odds and ends that hadn’t found homes yet. We had been married only a week and were still putting things away.

He shrugged. “Some old people are fun. They have good stories. Just pick one that looks interesting.”

“These people have no lives,” I insisted. “All they have are grandkids.” I grabbed the Des Moines Register off of the recliner and absently began turning the pages. “I don’t think I’ve seen a single photograph that hasn’t been of some little kid playing softball. Don’t kids do anything but play softball?”

“Well,” he bravely tried again, “at least you can talk about photography. Right?”

“Paul, I don’t think you understand.” Collapsing dramatically onto our inherited couch, I proceeded to recap the previous night’s class.

Our computer stations were arranged around a center desk all the way around the lab. I sat in the center of the East wall, with a young woman on my right and an empty seat to my left. Four desks from me was a gray-haired man who looked to be in his mid to late sixties. He was slightly overweight and wore wire-rimmed glasses from which blinked watery gray eyes. He was a quiet individual, the kind of man you suspected would know quite a bit about eighteen century blacksmithing and nothing about the Beatles.

He has started the class a few days late and seemed to be confused. We had just begun that day’s assignment and all around the lab, fifteen students hunched over their screens. His own head stared fixedly at the bright screen, but unlike his classmates, he wasn’t working. He appeared to be angry at something, muttering to himself and occasionally giving the keyboard a threatening whack. After several minutes, he turned around and looked toward our instructor, a perplexed look upon his lined face.

“I don’t know what happened,” he explained, “but I can’t do anything.” Our instructor asked politely what it was he couldn’t do, but this seemed to only make him more confused. I could tell that my classmates, in the same manner as I, were trying very hard to catch every word without appearing to listen. “I can’t do anything,” he repeated. “The little arrow went off the page and now I can’t do anything.” He gave his mouse a disgusted tap, like what might have been used to scold a small dog, and folded his arms. By this time, I had ceased trying to be polite, and was staring quite unashamedly at the man who has lost his “little arrow.”

Our teacher, evidently, having never encountered such a problem before, seemed to be at a loss. There was an awkward silence for a moment before the young man in the seat next to the distraught gentleman quietly reached over and moved his mouse across the mouse pad. The cursor, which had gone off of the screen’s edge, obediently reappeared. The gentleman looked intensely surprised, and then pleased. “Oh,” he said. Without another word, he gathered his notes and continued his class assignment.

Paul seemed to find this more amusing than did I, and smiled at me. “At least you’ll stay at the head of the class.”

School Days

Professor Daniel Templeton was pretty much what I thought a professional photographer should be. He was in his early thirties, tall and thin, and had dark hair with one thin shock of white that hung over his forehead. His hair, like his photography, was completely natural.

He taught Introduction to Photography, though he was frequently gone on business. His trips were sometimes as far away as California for as short a period as overnight. He had a studio somewhere in the city of Omaha, as well as on the west coast, and from the moment I stepped into his class he was my hero.

Polite people might call him eccentric, or…different. Most people would shrug and say that he was a nice guy but something about him just wasn’t quite right. He pounded into us the idea that, when you’re holding a camera, you can get away with almost anything. “You’ve got a guy squatting in the middle of the sidewalk,” he would tell us, “staring at a crack full of weeds, and the people walking by try to ignore him and not make eye-contact with the ‘the crazy weed-guy.’ Give that same guy a camera, however, and suddenly people are craning their necks trying to see what he’s looking at and thinking to themselves ‘Wow. Look at that. That’s so artistic. It’ll make a great abstract piece.’ It’s stupid,” he admitted, “but life is like that. An impressive looking camera will get you access to a lot of things. Use it.”

Because it was in introductory class, the curriculum covered only the basics of camera operation and photo composition. The syllabus we were handed was actually much more ambitious than what was actually taught and I have since come to realize that few art teachers ever follow their syllabus and are used more frequently as coasters, if they’re used as anything at all.

Most of the students in the class were beginners, and we were reluctant to actually shoot anything. Trying to establish where we were exactly, Professor Templeton scheduled studio shoots for us to practice. We shot still lives of whatever was handy, and portraits of each other. Our class was located directly off of the main hallway and we were frequently joined by lost or curious passers-by. Such unfortunate visitors were added to our weekly shoots.

There were a handful of days where we would do nothing in class but sit and talk to each other. Professor Templeton would tell us about his experiences working with different companies, or about people he knew.

“How can you make a living photographing nothing but ice cream?” As a class, this sounded a little fishy to us.

“The same way you make a living at anything else. Being really good at it.” Professor Templeton, dressed in jeans and a button-up shirt, leaned against the white board and kept talking. “And it’s not like he’s employed by a single ice cream company. He does things all over the country. Sort of the go-to guy for everyone.”

“But how can there be that much ice cream to shoot?” a dark haired student insisted. “And, come on, it can’t be that specialized. If you can shoot an apple, you can shoot an ice cream cone.”

Professor Templeton shook his head, obviously amazed at the stupidity of his students. “Shooting frozen food is actually very hard,” he began, “you get one shot. By then it’s started to melt too much and you have to switch it out for a different one. They usually employ a food stylist to make a hundred or so identical scoops. And did you know,” he leaned over the first row of students and waved his finger accusingly, “that most of what you see in advertising isn’t really ice cream at all? If it’s an ad for a certain brand of ice cream than it has to be – deceptive marketing you know - but it’s usually a corn-syrup concoction they mix up.” He grinned. “That way it won’t melt.” This thought seemed to remind him of something else and he seamlessly continued, “Did I ever tell you about the restaurant menu I shot last year?”

As we became more comfortable with the operation of our equipment, we were sent out on individual assignments. The directions were vague, usually something like “shoot something bigger than a bicycle and smaller than a house. Not a car.”

Being cursed with a last name near the end of the alphabet, I was among the last to have my photographs critiqued. While I was fiercely nervous the first handful of times, my anxiety quickly abated when I realized the mediocrity of the other students. I realize now that it wasn’t at all because I was so very talented, but rather that my classmates were so very…untalented.

The class was instructed to critique each others work, but, aside from our instructor, there were rarely negative comments. Or constructive comments. If conclusions were drawn based solely on peer input, every student had good composition, nice colors and interesting subject matter, even if the colors were dull, the subject was boring and the composition resembled a preschool finger-painting.

One particular student, a girl, didn’t seem to be making any progress. After the class had finished reviewing her work, we made a few comments and then sat quietly. The young woman sat smugly in her seat, apparently quite pleased with herself. We waited for Professor Templeton to move on the next portfolio, but he just sat with his gaze fixed on the screen.

“So tell me,” he said finally, turning to face her self-satisfied grin, “have you ever considered welding?”

At the end of the semester, I had an “A.” I was pleased with what I had learned in the class, but still unsure of whether or not I really had any talent. After turning in a final portfolio, I was scheduled to meet with Professor Templeton.

“Your portfolio looks great,” he said as he handed it back to me. “Good work.”

“Thank you.” I was trying to be appreciative of the compliment, but I had been hoping for something more. “Do you have any suggestions on things I could do to improve?”

“Not at this point.”

I was getting exasperated, “Nothing?”

Professor Templeton smiled, seeming to understand. “Erin, you’re still a beginner. There are things that you can improve in, of course, but you’ll do that naturally as you gain more experience. You don’t need me to tell you what they are.” He tapped a finger on the top of my portfolio. “Just keep shooting.”

I was pleased at the observation, but still didn’t find it terribly helpful. “Ok.”

“So you’re moving to Des Moines after you get married this summer?”

“Yeah, I’m going to take some photography courses at DMACC.”

“Good for you. “ He paused for a moment and seemed to be thinking. After a few seconds he smiled and said, “Sorry, I was trying to think if I had any connections in the Des Moines area anymore that I could refer you to. But I’m not over there much anymore.”

“That’s ok.”

He held out his hand, and I took it. “Good luck out there. Drop me a line sometime and let me know how you’re doing.”

For a split second, he was my friend and not my teacher, and I smiled. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

Wedding Woes II

They were a cute, young couple, and they seemed normal. This wedding was already going better than most. The wedding was scheduled for September, but we were meeting now, in July, for a consultation and a quick engagement session.

We went over a few details concerning starting time, number of people to be photographed and personal photo preferences, and started on the engagement pictures.

It was a beautiful day, though it had threatened rain earlier in the morning, and the county park where we had decided to meet, was nearly empty. We took a few shots right near the water, and then moved into a clearing surrounded by a number of huge trees.

They were friendly, obedient, and photogenic. We were finished in a half hour, and I was pleased with the results. They thanked me, I told them to expect their proofs in two weeks, and we parted ways.

Two weeks later, they had their proofs and I was eagerly anticipating their order. The weeks came and went and soon it was late August. I was surprised that I hadn’t heard from them and after I got no response from several emails and a phone call, I assumed that they weren’t very happy with the proofs and had decided not to order. It was disappointing, but not a huge deal. I went about my business and eventually forgot about them.

The day of wedding finally arrived and everything went pretty normally through the ceremony and the formal portraits. When I arrived at the reception, I quickly snapped a few establishing shots of the venue, the cake and the DJ. I got to the gift table, however, and noticed that they had a display of engagement photos.

Honestly, I was kind of hurt that they had disliked my image so much that they had gone to another photographer, but I was curious, so I went closer for a better look.

The picture looked familiar…I took another look and realized why. They were mine-sort of. The location was the same. The pose was the same. The clothes were the same. But they weren’t the same; they weren’t mine.

It didn’t take a brilliant mind to figure out what had happened.

Over the course of the day, I had the unfortunate opportunity to run into one particular friend of the bride and groom who seemed to be everywhere. He was what I like to call an “accomplished annoyance.” Other people like to call them “aspiring photographers.” Regardless, he was one of those people who own a high-level consumer DSLR and thinks that makes him a professional.

My guess was that the couple decided that they could save a few bucks by studying their proofs and having their “aspiring photographer” friend re-stage the photos.

Technically, this qualifies as copyright infringement, but rather than spend thousands of dollars on a law suit, I added a few dollars to their bill. Problem solved…if I can ever get them to place an order. . .

Wedding Woes

We were scheduled to begin the “getting ready” photographs at 12:30. I arrived at the hotel at 12:15. The bride had failed to call me back and tell me the room number so I checked in at the front desk to ask where the party was getting dressed.

“I’m not supposed to give out that information,” the receptionist told me, her brows inching together.

I gave her the smile I reserved for all hotel, DJ and serving staff, and saw her resolve lessen. It was an expression of mild irritation, mixed with a very slight humor, and dripping with empathy. It conveyed quite clearly that we were sisters in a profession that involved catering to idiots. “The bride didn’t know which room they were in and she forgot to call me when they got here,” I explained, still smiling.

She studied me for a moment and then turned toward the computer. I had won. “It looks like they have rooms 113 and 114.”

“Great.” I picked up my camera bag and started my way across the lobby. “Thanks so much.”

I stopped in the restroom and then continued to make my way down the hall. I knocked on the door of room 113 at 12:21 PM. There was no answer, so I took two steps to the right at knocked on room 114. No answer.

Glancing at my watch, I decided to wait in the lobby until 12:35 before calling the bride. They were probably a little behind.

I settled into an armchair across from the lobby TV and leafed through my client file with half an eye on the Disney Channel. Figuring I had a few minutes to spare, I pulled out my phone and called Paul to check in.

“Hi. The bridal party isn’t here yet so I thought I’d call to make sure you found the church.” We were on a tight schedule for the day so Paul had dropped me at the hotel and gone to the church to set up light for the formal portraits that were scheduled to be taken at 1:15.

“Yeah, I found it.”

“Good, you have any problems?”

“The church is locked, I guess you could call that a problem.”

“The church is locked?” Fantastic, that was what we needed. “You’ve tried all the doors?”

“Yeah.”

I sighed. “Okay, I’ll call the bride. I’ll call you back after I talk to her.”

Opening the file, I consulted the contact information and dialed the number. She answered. “Hi, this is Erin Simpson, I was just checking in to make sure that everything was okay.”

“Oh hi, Erin. Yes, everything is fine, We’re just running a little behind. We’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“Ok, that’s fine.” If by fine, you mean, a huge disaster of doom. I glanced at my watch. “So you should be here at about ten after?” No problem. As long as you can get completely dressed in five minutes, we’ll still be on schedule.

“Something like that.”

“Okay. Well, actually, I wanted to ask you something else. We need to set up lights at the church, and everything is locked up. Would you be able to get someone over there to unlock for us?”

There was a pause. Muffle voices. “Oh, Erin, you’re going to hate me. They aren’t going to unlock the church until three. Will that be a problem?”

No problem. Just because we have three hours of formals scheduled to be done before the ceremony, and the wedding starts at four…but no. That’s completely fine. No worries. We’ll just sit here and fold origami cranes until then. “Well, that does put us behind schedule a little, so we might have to pare down your photo list.”

“That’s okay.”

“Or, if you wanted to, we could do all the formals outside someplace.” May as well, you’re being charged for my time either way.

“Oh, yes, let’s do that!”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you call me when you get here and I’ll go out and see if I can’t scout out some good locations.”

“That sounds wonderful! Erin you’re great. We’ll be there in a little while.”

“Okay, see you then.” I hung up, sighed at called Paul. I explained the situation and asked him to pick me up. We had driven two hours to get here and, as a result, I wasn’t very familiar with the area. Fortunately, Paul had worked in the city several times over the course of the past few years, and he knew of a beautiful park with big stone walls and giant trees. I was starting to feel more optimistic.

With time to spare, we stopped to pick up some extra batteries before going back to the hotel. The bridal party had never called, but it was twenty after one by now so I assumed they’d just forgotten, they didn’t strike me as the most responsible people I had ever met.

Paul stretched out in the lobby to watch cartoons and I made my way to room 113, knocking on the door for the third time that day. I was accompanied by a member of the hotel staff who, having attempted to call the room a half dozen times, was desperately trying to inform the group that the flowers had arrived and needed to be removed from the reception area.

This time, the door opened and I was ushered in the bright chaoticism that was the bridal party. I pulled out my camera and starting snapping photos. This was easier said than done, as the room was intensely crowded and nearly every time I composed a shot, someone would inadvertently walk into my frame and I ended up with an image card full of people’s heads.

It took me several moments to locate the bride, whom I hadn’t met before. Our consultation was done, out of necessity, over the phone, and I had not idea what to expect.

She was a few years older than I had expected, and much heavier. She was the sort of woman who carried extra weight well, however, and she had a pretty face. I quickly realized that, not only did she have had the skin of a twelve year-old, she also had the organization.

At two o clock, it became clear that we were not going to be getting any formal portraits taken, outside or otherwise. The bride made the executive decision to have the pictures taken after the ceremony.

This particular bridal party was loud, disorganized, and, well, a bit odd. The entire experience was made ever more interesting by the fact that the bride had selected a “man of honor” in place of a woman. Contrary to what would seem to make sense, he was getting dressed in the ladies’ dressing room. This further complicated and crowded the already tight space by forcing the woman into the tiny bathroom to put on their dresses.

By 2:30 I more than ready to leave. I excused myself, saying we’re headed to the church to set up, packed my equipment and eagerly grabbed Paul from the lobby.

We drove across town and pulled up in front of the church. We tried the doors only to discover that they were still locked. To kill some time, we went into the salvation army store that was across the street. At three o clock we tried the doors again. Still locked. Great. At three-ten a woman in a red minivan pulled up beside us and got out.

“Are you here for the wedding?” Paul asked from the window.

“Wedding?” The woman looked confused, and the nervous, irritated feeling in my stomach that had almost disappeared suddenly came back full force.

“Isn’t there a wedding here today?” we asked hopefully.

“I don’t think so.” She studied us for a few moments and evidentally decided that we didn’t look particularity crazy. She pulled a phone out of her purse. “But I’ll call the pastor just to make sure.”

“I’ll call the bride to double check the location,” I offered, grabbing the file from the backseat of the car. I dialed, listened, and shut the phone. “No answer.” Surprise.

By this time, the woman had determined that there was no wedding scheduled for today, and gave us directions to the other Methodist church in town, just in case. No wedding there either. I called the bride again. And again.

We drove back to the hotel, but by this time, they had already left for the Methodist Church that I was now quite convinced was imaginary.

We explained our problem to the reception staff and they handed us a phone book, suggesting we try the Methodist churches in neighboring towns. By four PM, we had given up, and headed to the reception site to wait for the party.

I half wished them to be obscenely angry that we have missed the ceremony, so I could be angry as well, and remind them that it was their fault for giving us the wrong church. But… they we’re angry, they didn’t even seem annoyed. They were very easy-going, don’t cry over spilt milk- kind of people (which annoyed me), and said we could just take the formals now.

The light was beautiful, the peak of the golden hour, and the scenery wasn’t bad either, as it was an outdoor recreation center that had skiing in the winter, the bridal party, however, left something to be desired.

In the time that it took us to scout a location and herd the group outdoors, the groom and the best man had discarded their ties, one of the groomsman had changed shoes (you just carry an extra pair with you in your car, or what?), and the groom had procured a baseball had that he refused to part with. They were also completely wasted.

I did my best to line them up for pictures.

Paul extended his hand to an inebriated groomsman. “Can I hold that bottle for you, sir?”

He grinned; at least he was a happy drunk, but declined to part with his little bottle of happiness. “Naw, I’ll just put it in my pooocket,” he slurred.

Okay then. “Everyone look here at me, right at the camera.” I glanced in the viewfinder and cringed. The group was so ragged they looked like they were standing on a fault line. “Okay, one more time.” I pointed at the worst offenders. “Can I get you two to stand up really tall for me?” I’ll give you a sticker and a lollipop after we’re done. They struggled upright. “There you go,” I encouraged, “right there.” They smiled, and immediately lurched back to their previous positions. Good enough.

“Okay, everybody, look right here at me.”

Words of Widsom

Advice for the high school or college student wanting to get into photography: beware friends and relatives. As soon as they hear that you’re “into photography” you’ll have half a dozen point-and-shoot camera thrust in your direction at every class reunion, family get together and little kid birthday party you ever attend. Here is the problem: you are given a situation that involves bad lighting, unresponsive subjects, and 12 little kids hyped up on ice cream, and expected to turn out a photo worthy of a Pulitzer. With a 5 MP, full auto point-and-shoot.

I don’t care who you are. You can be a world-class chef, but if someone hands you a cup of sand and a cup of poop, you aren’t going to turn out a three-layer mocha fudge cake. The best you can do is a poop-sand cake.

My advice: tell everyone you know that you’re majoring in agriculture.

The Beginning

When I was four years old I wanted to grow up to be a ladybug. My mother told me that I could grow up to be anything I wanted and, while I was a bit confused as to how this metamorphosis would take place, I knew my mother never lied to me. I remember sitting in our front yard watching the tiny spotted creatures scurry over the sidewalk and happily thinking that, one day, I would scurry too.

I eventually realized that my ambition had some serious limitations, and so I set my sights on something more practical: a princess. Over the following years I changed my goals to include a world class ballerina, an artist, and an author. I loved to read and the teachers in my English classes told me I had writing talent. I carried this dream with me for several years, and it wasn’t until late in my high school career that I abandoned it, realizing that most “aspiring authors” end up waiting tables.

From then on I was in the camp of the undecided. It was a lonely place to be, filled withe pressures from family and friends anxious to see me "commit to something." I finally settled on an education major, though it seemed as much a serious contender as a ballerina.

After graduating, I enrolled at Drake University as a Secondary Education major. I loved college, and I was good at it, earning myself a 4.0 GPA and a place on the President’s list. As much as I loved college, however, I did not love teaching.

What I did love, was my boyfriend, and when Paul proposed on New Year’s Eve, I accepted. He had been pushing me to drop my education major, and now that it was certain we would spend our lives together, he pushed harder. He wanted me to love my job.

We were both young, in love and optimistic about life. So when Paul suggested that I leave my relatively safe teaching major and take up photography instead, I thought “why not?”

When I was a senior in high school, however, I decided not to go the prom. The year before, I had been dating a boy from a neighboring city and I’d spent a considerable amount of money attending two separate proms. I decided to buy a digital camera instead.

I picked out a Canon. When I went to pick it up I was told by the clerk that it wasn’t in stock and I would have to wait three weeks if I wanted it. I am not, however, and never have been, a particularly patient person. Knowing nothing about cameras, I bought a Fuji Finepix instead. This turned out to be a mistake and I did better on my next purchase, selecting a Nikon.

At the time we were engaged, I was a mere eighteen years old (much to my parent’s chagrin) and Paul was twenty three.

My family said I was too young to get married, but admitted that I was mature for my age, and we were both very morally and financially responsible. Paul was a graduate student in seminary, at the time, working his way to a master’s degree in theology and counseling. He was an exceptionally bright student and had transferred from Iowa State University’s engineering program in favor of a small, private Bible College. He was working as an independent contractor and made a decent, though hardly outlandish, salary.

My decision to change my major affected the months before our wedding more than we had anticipated, because it was now obvious that spending another semester at Drake, with tuition at $30,000 a year, was a high price to pay for the convenience of being close to one another. I reluctantly agreed to move back home, a nearly two hour drive from Paul, and enroll in photography courses at the local community college. At the start of the semester, I dove into my studies once again, this time trying to cover my disappointment. My friends were all at college and I felt very alone. I was also a little ashamed at having left a prestigious university for a community college. It was a prideful attitude, I admitted, but a part of me still felt I was better than that.

Fortunately, I was placed in the company of a number of educators and photographers who quickly helped me realize that schooling is not nearly so important as talent and motivation.

Through the remainder of my college career, I underwent such chaos, panic and frustration that I began to wish I had become a teacher after all. If it hadn't been for the intermittent moments of joyful euphoria, I probably would have dropped photography all together and become a Wal-Mart greeter. As it is, I hoped that the action of writing down my experiences would help me to see the less irritating, more humorous side of my profession.

Here's to hope.