I am sure there are moments when bystanders much wonder what is going through my mind. Sometimes my wife wonders the same thing. Of course, she has good reason.
Many years ago my wife thought it would be exciting to accompany me on a news assignment I had to shoot a street fair. It would be an opportunity to watch me at work and be able to take in her share of art, fried foods and mimes. I agreed to the arrangement with the warning that I’d probably have to leave before seeing the entire fair that extended several downtown city blocks. She agreed that although it might be cut short, she would have someone, me, to share the fair with her and that I might see something she didn’t so the experience might be greater than what one person could observe.
Little did she know what she was in for.
The fair was an ordinary spring event with aisles of food vendors plying passersby with vocal broadcasts to sample their special barbeque sauce or bite into a grilled beef, onio, and green pepper sandwich cooked with all local ingredients. Sprinkled among the professioanl food merchants were church groups and local service organizations selling corn dogs and lemonade a fundraisers for their local projects to feed or clothe the less fortunate.
Artists, most of whom sat stoicly in a chair just outside their 10×10-foot white canvas tents, observed the passing of possible Patricians hoping only one would acknowledge their obviously superior work, remove a fatted wallet from their pocket and offer to buy everything in their display.
I passed along the interior corridor between the opposing tents set along the street’s edge looking for that perfect photo to show the dynamic interaction between art and food lovers and their providers. Knowing the assignment was scheduled to play on the front page of the newspaper, I struggled looking for a vertical photo that featured strong graphical elements that might be bisected by the paper’s fold so that either half might draw a reader’s interest.
I put myself into that photographer’s zone where I observe quickly, referencing the details of a subject to see if it might fit my needs. There’s no lingering hoping an evolution of a possible subject will transform my view into the required image. If I didn’t see it immediately or could see that it was about to happen, I moved on. My wife trailed me, not in a subservient way. She stayed behind so she didn’t step in front of my lens while I was shooting and that she didn’t become part of the background of my photo. This arrangement had been determined before we began our travels.
Our arrangement abruptly ended when, within that photographer’s subconscious observations of the surrounding possibilities, my mind traveled backwards to a spot about five feet behind me where I’d sorted through the details of a good photo and now determined that was the place, now was the time.
I quickly turned, rushed to get to the perfect spot before the dynamics of the moment changed. The only problem was my wife. She was immediately behind me. Not several feet away. Not to the side. Close enough that when I turned my cameras slapped her in the chest and arms. She tipped backwards attempting to avoid further contact with my gear and to regain her balance after I’d stepped into her while turning.
I can still see her expression. No amount of pleading for forgiveness or explaining my thought process could return me to the slightly romantic state of our travels together along the streets of a spring fair.
The damage was done. I’d ignored her. Ignored her for a photo. Ignored her enough to have run over her with camera and body. And then, I ignored her while I stepped past her to get to that spot where I found the photo that would play on the front page the next day.
It didn’t matter that I’d accomplish what had been expected of my by the photo editor who gave me the shoot. It didn’t matter that the photos fit the fold perfectly. It didn’t matter that I’d apologized, many times. It didn’t matter.
Now when we go to an event together and I’m carrying cameras, we agreed to split up, go our separate ways and meet up at specific time and place where we can share stories of what we’ve seen. If necessary, when I’ve completed mys assignment or photo search, we return to the event to share our observations.
What’s makes this arrangement work so well is that I get to see the same subjects in a different way, as seen by my wife. That’s a different perspective than mine and she doesn’t get clobbered in the chest by her husband.
