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.”