For a minute there, right out of college, I thought I was going to be a photographer. I had done a couple of weddings and some graduation portraits; my portfolio from school had some good advertising and journalism work, so I went out and got a job.
I don't remember now which chain it was, but it was one of those ones in the mall that offer a monthly set of photos of the baby, or the family, or the family pet, or whatever. And, for a recent graduate, it served its purpose, namely keeping me in rent and beer money while I looked for more lucrative full-time work. The job had its perks: I could use the cameras and the darkroom after hours to do my own work and it paid quite a bit better than the minimum wage jobs being offered elsewhere. In fact, it would have been a pretty sweet gig if it were not for all the damned customers.
I started taking pictures…wait, no. I started “working on my art” during my senior year of high school. All students had to take two elective classes a semester, and the photo class met during zero period, meaning you got to get out of school earlier. Also, rumor was that the teacher was very laid back and let you out of class to go take pictures most days. Dad picked me up a used Pentax K-1000 with a couple of lenses and I set out to learn photography.
After an initial few weeks of learning how to develop film and prints1 the rumors proved to be true and my friend Lauren and I spent most mornings wandering around campus occasionally taking a shot but mostly bullshitting and contemplating what we were going to do after graduation. We never did quite figure out graduation, and what came next, but over the course of that year I got to really love the camera and to love using it.
(Somewhat ironically, my biggest regret from high school is that while I had a camera in my hands for most of my senior year, I have almost no photos of my friends or family. I was far too busy trying to be an artist, chasing some vision in my head and so I never thought to actually take pictures of the people in my life.
Relatedly, I think this ends up being a true generation gap. When I tell my students that I had a horse growing up, they don't believe me because I have exactly zero photos of it. I counted up one time, and, including the occasional Sears portraits, I have about twelve photos of me from the ages of zero to 18. And there's only that many because when I mentioned this to my sister, she sent me a few.)
So, I decided to stick with it and did lots of courses in advertising and photojournalism all the way through university. I got decent marks and I got in trouble2 and I got a degree in photography. And then I got the job. And it just about ruined my love of photography for all time.
The mall photo job did not do a lot to develop any technical skills I had acquired. The cameras' controls stayed locked into a preset schema that utilized the studios' lighting rigs to give each photo a flat sameness that made the end product consistent and predictable, two things necessary to ensure repeat business. But, on the other hand, what the job lacked in technical artistry, it more than made up for in a very specialized creative freedom.
Photographers were encouraged to chat with the clients in order to provide unique situations and poses within the technical limitations of the studio. For the photographers, rank and position resided in the signature pose - if you could make a pose that became so popular other photographers had to learn it, you won. For me, learning how to talk with the customers, learning how to talk them into one pose and out of another, became a valuable takeaway from the job as a whole. That skill, more than any other, led to other, better, jobs. But I didn't know that yet. What I knew in 1998 was that my signature pose was popular and I hated doing it.
My signature pose, like so many things in my life, originated when I got put in a tight spot where I had to think on my feet. Another photographer had called in sick, I had no time to prepare, and the family that had just entered the studio radiated bored, angry energy like a steam train venting hot ash. I didn't offer any chat, I just started pushing people into place and told them exactly what to do: "Mom, you look like you're having a day. Just stand here. Dad, get out your wallet, yeah I know. Miss? Are you old enough to drive? Great, get Dad's keys and smile for the camera. Bro, you look like the family trouble maker. Come stand by Mom and make some trouble."
I don't know where that inner stage manager came from. I had never really done anything like that, the confidence necessary to do so was not something I was overly familiar with. I heard the words, I heard my own voice, but it didn't feel like I was the one talking. But, however it worked, it worked out. The pose became Dad in the center, looking bemused while Mom plucked his wallet out of his hand, son took the car keys out of his other hand, and daughter grabbed his cell phone.
It became fairly popular. Got a sample photo up on the wall and everything and the other staffers had to learn to either copy it or work out their own variations. For a brief, shining moment, it was flattering and then it got boring and then it got bitter. After a few months of this, we had a new photographer start. He took one look at my signature pose and said, “Dude, rip off the Jetsons much?”
And that was that. I gave up photography as a career and moved to Seattle the next week.
This was way back before digital cameras, kids.
Model release forms are there for a reason, y’all. Always get consent in writing. In photography circumstances at least.
Love how you found your confidence when becoming a stage manager in a pinch. I did similar gutsy things when I was young...stuff I now wonder if I still can access. I just didn’t care as much then and felt I had little to lose. I think that’s still the case and yet...