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.
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