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.”
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