Enter me. Now I’d only met Molly on two previous occasions, once at a film festival and once at a strange yet fun shoot the day after she’d been dumped by her boyfriend of several years.

Not exactly the best times to get to know someone.

But when she brought up the idea of the photo shoot, I was jazzed. Because I like topless ladies, yes. But ALSO because I liked the strange challenge of a photo shoot not meant to just capture a subject, but to capture something specific about the subject as well. Something like hundred of bedbug bites. Frankly, I was incredibly curious as to what that even looked like.

So there we were, Molly, myself, and her entourage, which consisted of her two good friends. I used to be of the opinion that extra people meant extra hassle, but I’ve come to realize that extra people means extra people to talk to.

And I love talking. So I talked, and we shot, and I have to say, those were some fierce bug bites. Molly taking off her shirt was made slightly less awkward by the fact her friends were there to encourage her, and when she did, my heart went out to the lady. Those bed bugs went to town on her, had themselves what looked to be some kind of Molly McAlleerFest. Hundreds of bites covering her body. Oof.

But it was fascinating to shoot. There’s more than a small degree of examination when I shoot someone for the first time, and that was only amplified here. The entirety of the shoot was me in awe of the extent of the bites, and at the same time trying to do both the bites and Molly justice in the shots.

Actually, here’s a fun fact for ya, the examination usually begins BEFORE the shoot actually starts. During that bit of conversation I engage in when a model shows up for the first time, while we’re chatting, getting to know each other, I’m also looking at their face, watching how it moves, the various expressions that cross it–boy, this sounds wicked creepy, but there it is.

THAT’S WHO I AM, MAN. You knew who I was when you met me.

And Molly? Brave dame, I gotta say. Most folks would’ve cowered in their homes until the bites faded, but Molly not only strutted out into the street, she let li’l ol’ me show the world too.

{Slow clap for Molly}

Molly’s article on her bed bug experience can be found HERE. It’ a winner, check it out.

Definitely, it’s the face that gets the gears turning in my brain, but even now, after years of this, it’s not an easy thing for me to ask a complete stranger to let me take their picture.

Heart picks up speed, I get jittery, it becomes difficult to focus on whatever else I’m doing.

Lindsey was my server at a restaurant, and while it was her face that intrigued me, it was her attitude, a bit of sass, more than a bit of a sense that she was actually enjoying her job, that made me ask her after the meal was finished.

The technique, the actual “how’d he do it?” That I’ve detailed before, no need to go over that again.

Obviously she said yes.

Shooting a new subject is a lot like a first date. Matter of fact, the entire model-photographer relationship is like dating. The pressure of asking them, that’s first. The first shoot, seeing if there’s something between you, the subsequent shoots, developing what you saw that first time, digging deeper. If you’re lucky, you find someone you can work with for a long time.

But before all that, the first shoot. For me, at least, it’s as much about getting to know the model as it is about taking good pictures. Because one informs the other. Lately I’ve been doing the majority of my “first shoots” at my apartment. I’m familiar with where the light is at any time of the day, I’ve got an excellent backdrop in the giant hedge outside my window and the rest of the neighborhood is filled with great little spots to shoot. And I’m in my comfort zone, my walls covered in thousands of Polaroids.

This lets the model know I REALLY like taking photos.

When they show up, it’s conversation. Getting to know each other, though the focus is on me getting to know them. Warm things up. Find things in common, make some jokes, a bit of an interview, a bit of an icebreaker.

All the while, I’m watching their face as they talk, looking for expressions to photograph, the good angles, the flaws, the things I’ll want to avoid. What makes them look better, what makes them look worse? It’s an interview, but it’s also an investigation.

THEN we shoot. We’ll go outside, I’ll check the light, see where it’s playing on their face, where I want to position them. Stand them right in front of that hedge and start shooting. Still talking, keeping things light.

I’m not the kind of photographer that needs to have things Just So, it’s a rather loose thing, my photo shoots. I let the models move, not insisting, not resisting.

When I see something that really strikes me, then I’ll ask them to hold still for a bit. For some people, that’s an easy thing. Others, they got shpilkes, they’re jittery, they just gotta move. I try not to hem that in, too much, rather I try to slow them down just enough to get the shot.

Like I told someone the other day, it’s not about making them uncomfortable, getting the shot is not the most important thing. It’s about having fun and interacting with people.

Most of the time, that first shoot, I’ll just move the model around my front yard, playing with the light a bit. If that goes well, if we get along, if I like what I see later on when I’m looking at all the shots, if all that is Solid, then I’ll shoot them again.

Sometimes even if it doesn’t go well, sometimes I’m just not sure.

But most times, you know. I knew after shooting Lindsey that first time, we got along great, the photos turned out smashingly. And so I shot her again as soon as possible.

Because sometimes you’re not sure, and then there’s the other times, the times you want to shoot until you run out of film.

Lots of things bother me, but this is one that comes up pretty much every day. Because every day I have to refer to women, somehow. And, up until not too long ago, in both writing and speech, I’d just say something like “oh, she’s a wicked smart girl,” or, “I got a girl we can use for that photo shoot.”

I’m not sure when it was that I realized the weight of that word, but I decided I didn’t like the fact that, at least among the people I read, see and talk to, the most commonly-used term to refer to a female was (and is) “girl.” I don’t consider myself some great feminist, but I think it’s the least I could do toward equality to refer to women by terms that don’t automatically frame them as children.

And then I start thinking and realizing that little things like that, like the every day use of the word “girl,” occur all the time. That in dozens of ways, we daily frame people in ways that limit them, that demean them, often with the people involved complicit.

I talked about all this with Meaghan, because she’s not just smart and a writer, she’s also a woman (SURPRISE). A woman with a blog that lots of other women read. So when Meaghan calls other women (or herself) a girl, folks listen. And then it continues.

I don’t try to make big changes in my own life. I’m all about incremental improvements. And I don’t expect to with a single article change the world, or even anyone’s mind. But I think it’s worth considering, what does it mean when you call women, “girls”? How does that affect people?

Labels, it comes down to labeling, I suppose. And I’ve been giving a lot of thought to labels, recently. To categorization. How is a relationship defined? How do people categorize themselves? Naturally, one or two or three words can’t sum up a single person. But the brain tends toward categorization, stereotyping situations and people in order to more quickly assess the world. And so “girls” becomes a clever catch-all for all women. But it comes with a myriad of connotations, many of which serve to frame a woman in a Less Than context.

This issue is probably beyond me in a lot of ways. And I’m far from having figured out where the discussion goes, definitely no idea where it ends. But it should at least start with a consideration of the words we use to describe people, should start with taking the time to think about what we’re saying when we say what we say.

And it’s not like it’s a rough slog, looking back at my work from years past. Sure, I look at early shoots I did in 2006, 2007, lament that I would use six or seven packs of Polaroid film at a time, unaware of the fact that three years later I’d be hesitant to take a single picture, knowing how little Polaroid film was left in the world.

Gotta say, there are lots of mistakes that make me shake my head, simple things that today I instinctively avoid, but back then was completely oblivious about.

I was a very different photographer when I took these photos of Celisse. It was two years ago, and I’d driven up to San Francisco to shoot with her and my friend, Julia. I was only a few months out of a three year relationship, just starting to live with the idea that taking photos was The Thing I Wanted To Do Most.

Nowadays I plan shoots every week, sometimes two or three in a day. But back then it was still an odd thing to photograph a stranger, to call someone a Model and have them pose for me.

It’s weird to look back, think about things I do now that are so a part of my photographic process, things that were just guesswork, back then. Good shots were as much luck as anything else.

2008 was the last time I went to San Francisco, as well. Up until then, I’d go up at least once a year. Not much of a traveler, me, but I’ve always had folks I love visiting up there, good enough friends that I’d slog through the 5-6 hour drive.

Drives that long means a nap. Because 1) I love naps and 2) driving makes me sleepy. That trip to Las Vegas a few weeks ago, that was a two nap trip right there.

Can’t really say that’s why I don’t go back. Can’t really say there’s a reason, actually. Just haven’t felt the pull. Maybe after that weekend, where we shot in the most amazing places, took pictures of the most incredible model, then had ourselves a fantastic barbecue, maybe I finally used SF all up.

Or maybe it’s time to buy a plane ticket.

Yes, I just made up “googly eyes.” It sounds funny, I am here to entertain!

Ginny and Kevin, they keep it respectable in public. I’m sure they have pet names for each other, have the most insidious pillow talk and spend long periods of time just gazing into each other’s eyes. But that’s all private. Because they know how annoying it can be in public.

There should be a word for it, actually. The opposite of schaedfraude, that is the misery someone gets when they see other people being happy. Wait, that’s envy, right? Fine. Well, there should be a German word for it then. Germans, well, they can describe stuff wonderfully.

I see people being happy like that, that teeth-achingly sweet kind of happy where they are visibly in love and the rest of the world disappears, and I’m extremely annoyed. I look at them and my mind begins to concoct reasons they aren’t really happy. Or perhaps I look at them, judge them, think of them as only happy because they’re ignorant, or unattractive, or deluded about what love means. My mind works its hardest coming up with reasons I shouldn’t feel envious, which, I’m pretty sure, is really just a highly convoluted type of envy.

I was running, nice early morning jog, and I saw two couples laughing to themselves as they walked down the street. Now this is about six in the morning, and it was obvious from their outfits (all gussied up) that they were coming home from a night out, that they’d had themselves a fine night.

First thoughts that ran through my head were those of trying to come up with reasons they were wrong. Reasons they were being irresponsible, or ignorant. As I’ve started recognizing this within myself, I’ve tried to stop it when I recognize I’m doing it. And that particular morning, I did stop it.

I don’t know if it’s competition, or trying to take others down a peg to make myself feel better, but it’s clearly envy, and it’s something I’m tired of. So I put it here.

Wait a second, has this column become my Vision Board? EXPERIENCE LESS ENVY.

And so, I’m happy for Ginny and her man. But I cannot be held responsible for my actions if they were to start sucking face in front of me. Be warned!

Then the rain started to come down. Then I ended up in a King Hell storm the likes of which I haven’t seen in years.

Before it was all over, I’d passed six cars which had spun out on the road, including a cop car. I was white-knuckling it for a good portion of the five-hour drive, alternating between the resigned calm of someone who knows with a grim inevitability that they are about to experience something horrible, and the glee of a person bathed in good luck. Because, frankly, I’m a damned good driver. But it was 100% luck that I didn’t end up in a ditch on the side of the road.

Basically, I was too dumb to listen to the fear telling me to just pull over and wait it out. I’ll be damned if I’ll let fear tell me what to do!!

Which is, I’m sure, what Laurenn has been telling herself all week. Laurenn, already a successful illustrator and graphic designer, decided to go back to college a little while ago, to get herself a master’s degree. She wants to shift her career towards being a Professional Artist. And this week was her Mid-Way show, which was the very reason I was in Vegas, see.

And, I gotta say, I’m damned impressed with Laurenn. She’s older than her fellow grad students, and as I watched them critique her work before the show yesterday, my skin crawled. I’d have an extremely hard time taking criticism from little whipper-snappers that didn’t have nearly as much life experience as myself.

Maybe it’s the fear that they’d be right. Frankly, the whole thing is a bundle of fears I’d rather not deal with. But that hasn’t stopped Laurenn. Her show was a smash, place was packed, everybody dug it. Of course, among the many differences, my making it home in one piece? Luck. Her putting together a fresh art show? All skill.

But I think there’s that similar feel of glee at the end of both. That “I made it!!!! AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!” feeling. And that feeling is mighty fine.

Go check out Laurenn’s work, past & present: http://www.laurennmccubbin.com

“What’s the first thing people notice about you?”

Which seems, on its face, ridiculous. Because I’m neither Other People nor am I telepathic. Can’t say as I’ve ever had a conversation with somewhere wherein I asked them, “Hey, what’s the first thing you noticed about me?” Just plain weird thing to ask a person.

Still, it got me thinking, and so I asked my buddy. And, friend that he is, he answered almost instantly, “Well, that you were black.”

Which wouldn’t have occurred to me in a million years. Well, maybe not that long, I bet almost everything would occur to you if you had a million years. You’d probably also be insane, so let’s just stop thinking about you, thinking for a million years, outliving pretty much everything, alone on a dead planet, wandering, praying for death.

But oh, the stories you’d have. Yeah, let’s just move on.

Being black. I know I’m black, don’t get me wrong, see me in the mirror at least a few times a day, making sure there’s nothing up my nose, no outrageous pimples, no crusties in my eyes. So it’s not as if the fact of my blackness comes as a surprise.

Also, you’d find, should you ever have the good fortune to meet me, that I am not shy about bringing up the fact, using it in a joke, so many jokes, really. Feigning righteous indignation, seeing racism where there obviously is none. Oh the laughs I get from making white folks vaguely uncomfortable.

And yet, the idea that the first thing that someone notices about me is that I’m black? I found that more than a little strange. Because, and this should shock no one, there are a few preconceptions about black people, more than a few of them negative. The thought that some folks would see me, or just see me online, and have preconceived notions about me because they see a Black Person, that’s odd and, I poutily thought, more than a little unfair.

At 32 years old, I have finally discovered stereotyping.

Which brings me to Barbara.

Barbara is not black. No. But she is half-asian, half-white. It’s that half-white bit that I find significant. Because (revelation time) I too am half-white.

And I think that’s where the weirdness comes from. In general and, in this case, specifically. I was raised mainly by kindly white folk, grew up in a whitish area (well, white and Persian, take that for what you will), went to a school with more than a few white folk, have mostly white friends, tastes and hobbies that are mainly considered of the white variety.

So, yeah, in a way, I do kind of forget I’m black, sometimes. When it comes to people seeing me, yeah, it kind of leaves the forefront of my thoughts. Or, rather, I think of it as but a part of my total make-up, a piece I can take or leave as I please. When, in fact, it is something that EVERYONE WHO LOOKS AT ME is instantly aware of.

And I wonder if Barbara feels the same way, if this is something common to folks from mixed backgrounds, that they are occasionally taken by surprise by the notion that people view them in starker terms than they view themselves. That folks, when they look at us for the first time, take a reductive position on us, based on our appearance.

So yeah, online dating? Weird stuff, man.

Which may be why so many people I know, myself included, adore her. The lady’s brain just works on a different wavelength, where things that would never in a million years occur to me pop into her head with alarming frequency. And that, dear readers, is a marvelous thing. Because I love weird people.

Weird people can surprise you, see. Weird people are interesting. They think the thoughts you do not. Even if you’re weird, too.

Had brunch the other day with a couple I know, artists, both of ‘em. They were telling me about their recent trip to Japan, and, thinking back on it, I’ve no idea how it turned towards politics, but it did. And I quickly realized we were of differing minds on the current political climate.

Now, maybe normal folk would just back off and talk about the food or the weather. But I’m a weird guy, SO I PRESSED ON. And know what, it was great. We didn’t necessarily come to any agreements, but it definitely helped me see other sides to various issues. Helped me create a fuller picture for my own political beliefs.

Thing about hanging out with like-minded folk, it’s a bit harder to find a new idea. But with weirdos, strange cats, people who don’t think the way most people do, new ideas are rampant. If only because they’re not the ones you’re used to.

Now Sunny, she’s got ideas about killing you and turning you into a zombie, sure.

But maybe that’s just what you need right now! Maybe the threat of being killed by this pixie of a dame is just what you need to get off your ass and make something of your life.

Then there are the ones like Natasha, where the shoot is just part of our time together, time that usually includes a walk to Roscoe’s House of Chicken & Waffles.

Natasha was one of my earliest models, and, as such, we’ve now known each other for several years. I’ve taken hundreds of pictures of her, and at this point we’re far more Friends than we are Model & Photographer. Which is to say, knowing Natasha as I do definitely helps when taking her picture.

That, for me, is the ideal. Because, models? Not terribly hard to find. At this point I’ve got a solid network of models I can regularly use. I’m always on the lookout for new faces, but even better, all the folks I know are on the lookout.

“Shoot my roommate!”

“I saw someone at this restaurant you should shoot!”

“Shoot my sister!”

What’s far more rare, and thus far more valued, is finding a good friend, someone like Natasha.

When we met she was the friend of another of my models. But it wasn’t long before she and I were hanging out on our own, shooting frequently, grabbing meals, complaining about dating and our mutual friends. Actually, that’s pretty much what we do, now. Only I’ve got less hair, and she’s got more.

I suppose, in general, it’s hard not to get involved, in one way or another, in the lives of your models. If you shoot someone more than once, you’re going to talk to ‘em. The conversation will eventually turn to things personal. Next thing you know, you’re giving them advice about boys, about work, about life, they’re giving you advice, you’re hanging out without even taking pictures, going to each other’s birthdays, seeing their concerts.

Just the way I like it. Much more interesting to have a friend as a model, to be able to see, perhaps, a different side of them appear in front of the camera. And vice versa, hanging out with a model separate from the shooting, you see different things, build a fuller picture of them in your mind. And that feeds back into the shooting, informs all the subsequent shots.

The better you know someone, the better you photograph them, the better you know them.

I crack myself up.

There is a certain degree of trust I am usually afforded by my models. A social contract is formed, and most of the time they go out on a limb a bit further than I do. Sometimes they let me into their homes, and that’s a big thing, man. Letting a stranger inside your house. Sometimes they come to mine, and that’s a big thing, too. Walking into a foreign place, not knowing who or what to expect.

I do my best to soften the strangeness of it, to earn the trust they’ve given out. I think the first thing is to realize, Trust is something to be valued.

Alexandra showed up with her mom, and all they knew is that I was a photographer. They’d been sent to me by Ford, so there was some vetting already done, but I’ll tell you, you just never know. I’ve heard stories, too many stories. Some guys are … I don’t actually know if I can swear in a Manolith article, so I’ll just say, some guys are monsters.

So there’s trust that’s required, here. I like to lay out exactly what I’m gonna do in a situation like this, what the tone of the shoot is gonna be, where we’re gonna be, how long, and so on. Give out as much information, invite the mother along to the shoot (something some photographers aren’t into), just make it as open a situation as possible.

One of the things trust fosters is communication. And I love talking. Might not be great at communicating, but I love talking. So I talk, I try to communicate what I’m after, what I’m thinking about, which, in the best cases, allows my model to open up, come up with their own ideas, feel comfortable to move and experiment with how they are in front of the camera. The more folks talk to each other, the more comfortable they become. And comfort is key to my work, man.

Which makes having a make-up artist for a shoot like this quite helpful. Why? The make-up artist being involved means the shoot is gonna take longer. Make up, after all, takes awhile. FACT. At first I assumed it was just because a particular make-up artist was slow, but no, it’s not slow, it’s considered. Takes time to get it right, to do all the things that need to be done.

And the longer it takes, the more time I have to talk to Alexandra, find out about her, let her know about me, bolster the initial trust she’s given me by letting her in. It allows me to create and strengthen a rapport with her, which, I hope, takes the dynamic beyond a simple photographer/model dynamic.

All three of us talked: me, Alex, and our make-up maestro Kristina. We talked about relationships and high school and college and whatever else came to mind. We kept it going on the drive over to the location, on the hike up to the park, when Alex got her hair adjusted, when she laid down in some heavy foliage. The whole shoot, talking, communicating, creating and re-enforcing that comfort.

In the end, after everybody’s gone home, that trust continues. Alex has to trust that I didn’t make her look bad.

My mom says, “trust is giving another person the ability to hurt you.” And that’s the truth, emotionally, physically. Acknowledging and respecting that for the entirety of the shoot, hopefully that shows in each and every picture.

And so, this year … well, I’m not much for resolutions, for making changes because a date has shifted on a calendar, but there are things I’m working on, things that’ll hopefully come through in my work.

Be kind.

That’s a good one. And a good way to bring me to Kiva.

I’d met Kiva earlier in the year at a birthday party, but it wasn’t until last July, during a trip to Las Vegas, that I really had a chance to hang out with her. The trip — well, the whole reason for the trip had gone sideways, but I had the rental car, I had the days off, so I drove out there anyway, a bit battered, gritting my teeth half during half the drive at how badly I’d been screwed over.

Heh, lots of turmoil last year. May we live in interesting times.

So I arrived in Vegas in less than the best of moods. But that didn’t deter Kiva, or my friend Laurenn (who’d graciously offered up her spare room, all her free time and attention) from showing me a good time. Which is to say, they bought me hookers and we killed a few hobos. Or maybe that was just a dream from all the mescaline they gave me?

What? IT’S VEGAS.

Point is, they were kind to me, when I desperately needed it. We ate, saw the sights, they talked me through the rough spots, hated my enemies with me, cheered my friends, and so on. And that weekend of kindness saved my ass. Kept me from dropping way down in the zero and setting fire to everything that might’ve rubbed me wrong.

I’m thinking about that time now, thinking about what to do differently, how to make it all work better. Kindness. To folks when they need it. When they deserve it and, maybe more crucially, when they don’t.

On New Year’s Eve, the pope said we should treat each other like brothers, not rivals or enemies. And maybe I’m just in a particularly sappy mood, writing this in the early morning hours of New Year’s Day. I’ve just watched the sun come up on my favorite city, the kind of sunrise that you want to stare at until you go blind. I’ve just said “Good morning” and “Happy New Year” to several strangers on my jog today, noticing how some brightened at the sentiment and some were to surprised at the randomness to even respond.

Maybe I’m writing while still a bit high off the adrenaline rush, reading texts about friends who got lucky last night, and other friends who had themselves a piss poor evening. And I wonder if I can’t do a bit better this year by just being kinder to folk.

Can’t hurt (much) to try.

And it occurred to me, while listening, that in the month we’d known each other, it was the first real conversation we’d had, the first one that wasn’t just jokes and snark.

My first article here, I talked about the fact that it takes a good long time to get to know someone.

What I’ve recently learned, however, is that there’s a good deal more to it than just that.

After a month of seeing a girl, she broke it off. I took it hard. I’d seen a lot of possibility in the thing, I’d felt relief at being free from The Search. I’d felt a lot of things.

But it was pointed out that all this heartbreak was perhaps disproportionate to the actual experience of the relationship. That some folks didn’t have it this bad after relationships of two years.

The key to growth is to continually examine yourself, your motivations. To seek and work towards personal improvement. But there is a crucial component that people often find incredibly difficult.

Perspective. That week after the break-up (is it even okay to call it that) I took it all apart, laid the blame at her feet, cut myself of from her Internet presence, started the extensive healing process.

Until that point of proportionality was brought up. Gotta say, it made me re-evaluate the whole thing. Had I been trying to get to know her that month? Definitely. Had I been rushing things in my own mind, even when we’d agreed to take it slow? Yep. I’d forgotten the words I’d written here half a year ago. Forgotten the advice i’d given others countless times.

Yeah, it takes real life contact to get to know somebody. It takes effort.

But it also takes time. It cannot be rushed.

It is necessary to be a detective of my own mind. Problem being, most of the time I’m stuck trying to solve mysteries after the fact.

Another common warning I give folks, often a person impedes actually getting to know someone by crafting this image of them, this idealized version. And it’s that illusion they see, instead of the actual person. In doing so, they perform a kind of wish-fulfillment, and they also create for themselves a significant obstacle to actually getting to know a person.

In the end, I was as dismayed by the fact that the reality of the situation wasn’t exactly what I’d been thinking it was. I’d interpreted things a particular way because of what I wanted them to be, as opposed to how they actually were.

I’ve got an ex-girlfriend who considers our relationship a failure because it didn’t work out. But thinking about that relationship, and this one, I’m of a decidedly different opinion.

It’s not failure if you learned something. It’s a lesson.

It’s not failure if you avoided a bad situation. It’s escape.

Of course, this is far easier to write than actually do.

And it’s not at all easy to write. But this is where it starts, if there’s any hope of the Next Time working out.

Take it slowly. Not just that, but understanding why a considered pace is so crucial.

During our conversation, Caitlin talked about finding the right agent for her acting career. Sometimes, as good as the pitch is, time shows that it’s not a good fit. Sometimes the agent’s focus is different from their client’s. Lots of factors involved in whether the two are right for each other.

Turns out that’s true for a lot of things.

To whit: I try to avoid competition, don’t care for it at all. But deep down, I know it’s not that I’m some soft-hearted socialist who just wants us all to get along. Rather, it’s because I am fiercely, no, insanely competitive, and simply cannot bear to lose. Losing = the gnashing of teeth & the rending of garments. And as my favorite show once espoused: you cannot lose if you do not play.

Which, at times, extends itself … everywhere. Don’t text, if you don’t want to worry about not being responded to. Don’t ask, if you’re afraid of “no” being the answer. Don’t bring it up, if you don’t want to deal with the consequences of the conversation. It’s maddening. But there it is, just waiting beneath the surface, lurking. I see a good photo and sometimes I think to myself, “Can I do better? Am I better?” I’ll wonder if the reasons I don’t like a particular photo are honest, or if they’re because I’m secretly jealous.

This is probably all normal — oh how I hope so — but it’s still rather annoying, questioning your own motives & actions, your brain being a watch you take apart every day, the pieces you examine and clean before putting it all back together. The burden of the lower-middle class sorta-intellectual I guess.

It’s these kinds of things that make my mind go all 5150 when I meet people like Samantha. Samantha, you see, is a teenage model. Lovely girl, smart, personable and very pretty. She’s also barely into her teenage years.

Yet she is operating in the world of modeling, which has chewed up and spit out folks far more experienced and worldly than her. A world which is fiercely competitive, and not only that, one where the rules are fluid, and there’s always someone better on your heels. That she does so willingly, and with little complaint, is damn near mystifying.

Me, I’m just a boiling cauldron of insecurities and petty vendettas, I’d end up murdering dozens of people in the modeling industry if I spent more than 10 minutes involved in it. But she appears to enjoy the process, the shoots, the learning process, dressing up and playing pretend, and getting her hair did and her face made up.

Of course, she’s young. Hasn’t, maybe, had those crushing defeats that make one skittish around the idea of competing, of striving towards … something.

Because that’s probably it, yeah? The fear of losing, the fear of failure, that’s what keeps us (me) from even attempting success. Samantha, maybe by going after something she wants at this young age, before any significant failure, by racking up some small (yet significant) successes, maybe she’ll realize it’s worth the risk, worth the possibility of disappointment to go after something she wants. Maybe she realizes that failing isn’t all that bad, that’s it’s actually necessary, if you ever really want to achieve anything.

So. I’ve basically learned about maturity from a teenager. That there’s — what do they call that, irony? Awesome.

I make plans. Loads of plans. I like to figure out things at least a week ahead of time and have a sticky on my computer detailing what I’ve got going on each day. Lots of reasons why, but really, it’s all about control.

I’ve lived alone most of my adult life. There was that year with my grandmother, that 18 months with a girlfriend, but other than that, just me, myself and I for a good decade. And before that, I was an only child. Played alone, hung out by myself, and I wasn’t particularly adept at establishing friendships that extended beyond school grounds.

So as an adult, being able to be social is something I feel the need to constantly reinforce, to take advantage of. Having friends, that’s something I work at, something I value. So by planning, I can make sure I maintain those friendships.

Without planning it all out, I’d forget something, inevitably. Which would leave me with nothing to do, yeah? Because it’s also about filling up my days, lest I spend them staring out my window, checking the same six websites all day. Most of the things I like/need to do, work, photography, these things need to be planned out ahead of time if they’ve any chance of actually happening.

Thing is, I tend to rely on those plans, maybe use them to buoy my spirits, because otherwise, stuck in my wee box of an apartment, it can get a bit too “wilderness of mirrors,” just stewing in my own juices.

Problem with this whole system is, when a plan falls through, there goes my reason for showering that day. I get my state of mind too wrapped up in the event, in using that to determine whether or not a day is “good.” Being able to plan a day out, that’s me trying to make sure a day goes well, or is one I’m going to enjoy.

Which brings me to Lauren.

Lauren has specifically stated she does not like to plan. Which has led to the rending of garments and the gnashing of teeth. And. Letting. Go. Because I very much want to keep hanging out with Lauren.

If I’ve learned anything these last few years, it’s that I need to be flexible and be willing to examine the whys of what I do. That I need to come to terms with the fact that I can’t control anything or anyone. That it’s not even something I should want to do.

Funny thing is, this column, in its own little way, has helped me with this kind of stuff. Bit of self-examination. Why I plan. (I think it’s to due to my dad being a huge flake when I was a wee lad). Why I don’t like being watched while I shoot (could be I’m extremely self-conscious). Why that relationship last year didn’t work out (LACK OF COMMUNICATION).

So I guess the key is to keep learning, or growing, or changing. I’m gonna write all that on my little sticky right away. Oh, and here’s something I’d like to do more of, show you what these ladies can do! Lauren’s an ace photographer, go check out her stuff HERE.

And that we did.

Just happened to bring along with us some Ford Models, too, something I wouldn’t have normally considered, as I don’t usually like working with professional models. But this here was a special occasion. And special occasions call for special measures. Like Amanda, here. Amanda is a special measure.

Because, see, something like this is — while not the Normandy invasion — it is a production. This I learned from doing the same thing last year. Only last year I didn’t give as much thought to the whole affair, and while it was fun, it was a bit too loose, and a few too many hiccups.

So this year, I put my brain to work.

You don’t just want to invite a bunch of random folks, even if they’re all your friends. Photographers, they be a strange breed, see. Some photographers, great people, but horrible to be around while they shoot.

And beyond that, some photographers just have, well, some of us are just plain odd. Maybe we don’t want anyone watching while we shoot. Maybe we have a very abrasive directing style. WE’RE ARTISTS, SEE, WE’RE WEIRD!! Getting a bunch of weird people together, that’s delicate, man. And this is something I’ve definitely learned the hard way. There are folks I love hanging out with, love seeing what they come up with from a photo shoot, but, when it comes down to it, that I just don’t wanna shoot with. It’s basically a bit like planning where everyone sits for dinner at a wedding reception. Will everyone get along? Do any people involved have a problem with anybody else involved?

Then the models come in. Can the models work with several photographers? Are they divas? Cool to just lay in the cut for awhile, so we can shoot the other ones?

Like a chef in a fancy kitchen, like a cop going after a big crook: all the pieces matter.

This year I got wicked lucky. All the photographers, in addition to being incredibly talented, were just a super swell bunch as well. We brought snacks, drinks, talked photography, wind, light, and next thing you know, the sun’s going down, everyone’s putting on a jacket, straining to see in front of ‘em, already talking about doing it again, ASAP.

I’d arrived a bit early, early enough she hadn’t finished getting ready. (There were issues with her plumbing, and the plumbers were giving her the runaround. They were gonna show up early, then not for days, then maybe that afternoon. Very disconcerting.) I think it was all the mess with the plumbers that had her just too weak to resist, unwilling to worry about me watching this ever-so-sacred female act. She kept saying “you’re not supposed to see this.”

She kept saying it, but he didn’t hide away in the bathroom, didn’t send me into another room to play Sim City on my phone while she got ready. (I’m getting really good at Sim City on my phone, btw.) In a way, I relished the amount of comfort & trust she was giving me, allowing me to see her in such a physically vulnerable way.

So I sat quietly, only speaking when spoken to, let her do her thing, made but one request: “If you could, how about you put on as little as you feel comfortable with.” It’s something I commonly ask my models, when I remember. (I got a memory like a steel sieve.)

With Alie, though, it was worth mentioning because her make-up is very intentional and has a definite effect on the look of her face.

Her style is fairly vintage, and her make-up tends to accentuate that effect, give her a bit of a ’50s look that’s quite strong. Quite attractive, too.

BUT.

Seeing her without her make-up, I realized that, if I could get her to leave most of it off, I’d get a more honest portrait of her, a very different feel to all of the shots.

As she put on her make-up, we talked. And she put on more make-up. I didn’t mind. I knew when I asked that the odds were against me. Because this is how it’s supposed to be, yeah? And yet, I would personally much prefer if women didn’t wear make-up. But that there would start a whole Thing, wouldn’t it? No make-up, well then maybe no shaving, then nobody shaves, then we live in a world where everybody looks like they live on Planet of the Apes.

And yet, I’d love to see this city without make-up for just one day. I’d love to be able to photograph folks as they really are, maybe that’s it. Warts and all. Well, maybe not warts. Those are gross.

In the end, Alie ended up applying her normal amount of make-up, and we had ourselves a splendid shoot, because make-up or not, she is a stunner. But don’t be surprised if I show up early next time she & I shoot. By accident, of course.

I had been invited to the wedding by a fellow Polaroid enthusiast, Tod Brilliant, after I had found him a photographer to shoot the wedding using only Polaroids.

(I was still very green, didn’t have the confidence to put myself up for the spot, and in the end that was the smart play, as it gave me free reign over the wedding, able to shoot who and when I wanted, without any of the pressure of being the wedding photographer.)

I’d met Anne only that day, and she was damned delightful. Frankly, everyone at the wedding, all strangers to me, were awesome. It was a rare collection of excellent people; everyone more than happy to have their picture taken by a well-dressed man with a twenty-year-old camera.

Me.

I’d taken a photo of Anne earlier in the day, but had been less than satisfied with it. Best part was, she was less than satisfied, too. We both knew we could do better, but we were at a wedding, not necessarily the best spot for a wee photo shoot. I was constantly moving, mingling, kibitzing, and she was doing the same, many of the folks there friends of hers she hadn’t seen in awhile.

But I eventually caught up with her, right as the sun was going down. She posed just so, I could feel it was perfect as I was looking through the camera. Anne has a particular awareness of the camera, as a popular visual artist herself, she understood the importance of composition, of giving something worthy of being photographed. I stepped in closer, took the shot, watched it develop, but didn’t really give it a good look. I knew it was a sweet shot, and there was a lot of party left. It wasn’t until perhaps a day later, back home, that I started giving serious attention to all the Polaroids I’d taken.

And there it was. Gorgeous lady, gorgeous light, and, most important of all, that gorgeous pose that crystallized for me what I wanted from the photos I was taking.

I’d been trying, unconsciously, to capture that kind of expression for months, but didn’t know quite what I was looking for. And there it was, Anne, lips parted, as if about to speak, or taking in a slice of air, eyes alive, face neutral. I’d been having people stare at the camera, not smiling, as was customary when someone takes a picture, but it was that lack of expression, that slight part of the lips, that made all the difference.

So tiny a detail, yet I could see it was significant, when compared to shots where someone’s mouth was closed and looking into the camera.

It took me awhile to figure out why, and there’s several reasons. For example, it was the expression most models have, in magazines, in ads. It intimated more of a pregnant pause, perhaps. It evoked, ever so slightly, the idea that you have caught a moment in between poses, as the model was either saying something, or taking a breath, and as such gives the shot a greater degree of life about it, appears less posed, paradoxically.

After that shot, I asked that pose of all my models. But more than just figuring out a small detail to infuse my photos with, it began to show me that it was worth it to constantly examine my own work, looking for ways to improve, for ways to better get across the things I wanted from my photos.

I also learned that if I’m around Anne, I better have my camera ready.

You can find Anne’s art HERE

Nowadays, when I’m in the act of shooting, I think I’m great. I think I’m the best thing since sliced bread. I talk a lot, exude confidence — well, arrogance, really. I jump around, mock-surprised at how good a shot is, and reassure the models that we are making magic. And that feeling will sometimes last until I get home, and then I see one of Julia’s photos.

I look at her photos today, and it is the same as those many, many (three?) years ago. Because Julia is a Real Photographer.

I know because I’ve seen her operate. Seen her direct a model, compose, create within her mind, make it all happen. When I first met her, I was expecting someone distanced, maybe even a bit snooty. When someone who creates the photos she does, you expect them to be some genius who breathes rarefied air from a fancy canister. Someone who speaks above your pay grade. Instead, she was gregarious and excited. Jazzed. Yeah, jazzed, that’s the perfect word.

And almost three years later, jazzed is still the word I’d use to describe her. She draws a true excitement from photography and utilizes that to create amazing work. It’s an energy that definitely spreads, and energy goes a long way during a shoot. Best part? Julia’s getting big. Not all at once, and not nearly fast enough for her taste, but she moved down here early in the year to be a Professional Photographer, and now it’s happening.

I could spew out some more FOLLOW YOUR DREAM stuff at this point, but that’s not really what did it. Rather, what did it was damned hard work. Another reason she’s my hero. Maybe a far better reason that just, “ooh, she’s a really good photographer!”

She understands that to be successful in her field, you can’t just be talented: you have to work, work at your art, work at marketing yourself, at getting your name out there, and you need to be able to hustle, to get it the way it needs to be done, for the client.

Julia’s good at what would be the montage part of her story, where in a lot of fast edits you’re shown how she knocks on all the doors, takes all the meetings, leaves her portfolio, picks it up, then drops it off somewhere else. Except in real life, that there is a boatload of work.

She’s my hero because she’s willing to put in the work. For a lazy bastard like myself, that’s about as hardcore as it gets.

See Julia’s work at www.juliagaldo.com AND BE AMAZED.

No big surprise.

But I noticed at a shoot last week that it’s not just about creating a pleasant atmosphere for your model, not just about establishing a rapport and using that connection to take some good photos.

When Amanda punched me, I felt something change. She was hesitant, didn’t want to do it, and ended up socking me only lightly.

The first time.

I had her do it again, hoping that I’d get what I was looking for, something I’d seen in the previous three shoots I’d done that week. The second punch was solid, and you could tell something had shifted, just a wee bit. But she was still awkward about the idea. So I let it slide.

For a few minutes.

When I came up with the idea, it was all on its own. Have the model punch me, photograph the action, see and try to capture the changing mood on the model’s face.

But the more I did it, the more I witnessed that it wasn’t really the act of punching that drew my interest. It was the visible energy afterwards, the changed dynamic between myself and the model. The punching shots always ended up too blurry and fairly useless. But afterwards! The models were jumpy, excited, the energy was strangely more comfortable.

So a few minutes after Amanda first punched me, when we’d walked around a bit and shot some different set-ups, I had her do it again.

And a week later I’m still feeling the bruise from that one.

Now, I am not suggesting that any photographers reading this have their models surprise them by a punch to the stomach.

Though, when that happened, it was weird and shocking and awesome and I couldn’t stop laughing.

I’m not really suggesting anything. I came up with a weird thing that helps create a different energy during my shoots, that maybe gives the model a better sense of collaboration, of agency.

I’d shot Amanda several times before, always excellent shots, but this last shoot was different. More laughing, more excitement, more of a feeling that we’re all working together, that we’re more partners in this here photography thing.

And it’s amazing to watch. Amazing to be a part of. To feel I’ve made some progress, after spending so long just trying to get comfortable taking pictures of people, asking them to put themselves at my disposal.

And Amanda got to punch some folks, so everybody wins!

Which I dug. The idea that women contain within them violence and strength equal to men. That the idea of women being weaker is a socialized idea passed down for generations, but that given the chance, and the training, they can be just as, if not more, brutal than men.

And that this, as an idea, as a concept, is okay.

It’s okay for women to be strong. To be violent. To be aggressive. That marginalizing such tendencies re-enforces societal roles.

Perhaps I respond to it because I was raised by a strong woman who basically raised me all by herself, and as such was forced to assume roles more commonly associated with men. And not just in terms of being the provider, but in being an aggressive protector and advocate for her child. And that she didn’t, in the doing, become any less a woman. It wasn’t about assuming a masculine role, merely a dominant role.

It just so happened, as I was reading the book, thinking about these ideas, I was re-examining my work, looking for new ideas. And this one took hold. Showing women as strong, moving, if subtly, away from shooting women as attractive people, but rather as strong people. Less of the come hither look, more of the relaxed and confident posture.

Maybe I’m the only one who’ll notice it, but it’s got me excited, excited to see if I can express it adequately.

Which brings me to Corie. Shot her just last week, the new ideas in my head. She was the third woman I’d photographed with these intentions in mind, but I quickly realized, once we’d started shooting, that this wouldn’t quite work.

Because she already exuded that strength I was looking for. I was expecting to have to give some direction, some guidance, get her in the mental space for it. I’d already directed the other two models to punch me. Repeatedly. Hard. Change the energy of the shoot, get them amped up, relaxed, excited at the idea of being able to punch me. Shift the sense of power.

And she did it, cackled and giggled all the while. But as I watched and photographed, I realized she was the kind of model I needed right then, someone confident, assertive, unabashed.

So I just kept shooting, tried directing a little less than I usually did. And damned if we didn’t end up with some fine pictures.

Which was the point of all this in the first place, yeah?

Because I knew how it’d come off to everyone in there, it’d come off like I was trying to ask her out, which felt to me the worst thing possible. How gauche to ask out the girl who works at the comic book store, the cool nerd, I was sure she’d get that all the time, many nerds crashing up against the shores trying to ask out the only not-completely-intimidating woman they’d come across.

This is what happens in my brain when I see someone I want to photograph, this is the mental calculus involved. How much do I want to take their picture? What kind of public humiliation am I facing if I go through with it? What are the odds of success, weighed against the other factors?

And it was a very close thing. She was definitely worth the attempt, but there were just too many eyes watching me. And I definitely do not like being watched.

Which is where Andy came in. Andy, who has actually been responsible for me finding several of my models. Andy, who is for all intents and purposes, my pimp. On one occasion he even told me to hand my card to a woman we were standing in front of.

Good man, that Andy.

This time, Andy went up and introduced himself, which meant I had to introduce myself. He then made sure to let both employees know that I was a photographer, which is where I pulled out my card, told Robyn I wanted to photograph her, and made a hasty and adrenaline-filled exit.

Good man, that Andy.

Very good, because shooting Robyn was a hoot. 19, never done any modeling, at first quite uncomfortable. Unmolded clay!

So I just started talking and didn’t stop until she was laughing and relaxed. Which was easy, the lady’s a blast to talk to, and a blast to shoot. We’ve shot twice since I first spotted her in that comic book store, she’s a helluva dame. Loves comics, tattoos, Hunter Thompson, Grant Morrison. Mighty glad to have met her.

Good man, that Andy.

But looking back, I’d say there’s definitely been a change. Not long after I started working as an EMT, seven years ago, I found it easier to talk to strangers. Easier to be in social situations, as I now had a host of medical stories to relate.

It became easier to be social.

That dovetailed nicely with my increased fondness for photography. When I started shooting strangers, being comfortable talking to people, being able to make them comfortable through conversation, was a great asset.

The more I shot, the more comfortable I became, the more I found myself inhabiting, especially when meeting folks from the internet, a more…idealized version of myself. The person I portrayed on Flickr was confident to be point of being conceited, saw the world as a place that was glad to have me in it. And the more I met people from the internet, the more I acted like that person. Like that avatar I’d constructed.

Which brings me to Zoetica.

Zoetica has created herself from whole cloth. She is very much an internet personality, moves through the world virtually identical to the person she projects online.

And quite the personality it is, a self-described cosmonomad, she has constructed of herself a brand. Folks follow her on the web for fashion advice, to see her photography, her illustration, her interviews with other artists. She is one of the creators of Coilhouse Magazine, has spent years a as photographer for Suicidegirls, organized and exhibited art shows.

All, seemingly, through a force of will. Every piece of her carefully constructed, exactingly presented.

It’s not a new idea to point out that we can create ourselves anew if we so choose. Or that the internet is an excellent venue for such an activity.

But I suppose what fascinates me is the fact that, if you’re of a mind, the transformation can be as thorough as you like.

Some folks create their internet personality as an alter ego, as a costume to be worn when they’re online, so that they can play act as a more functional, more interesting version of themselves. That’s easy.

But Zoetica has actually Become the person she wanted to be, the person she constructed. That is a much harder task, a much more laudable feat.

So many people complain of being trapped in their lives. Being confined by their circumstances.

Zoetica is tangible proof that if you really want to, you can become whatever you want. If you don’t like who you are, or more accurately, if you want to become better than you are, it’s entirely possible. And that there is a damned exciting thought.

Thing of it is, they didn’t remember me all that well, which I was rather glad of. Glad the opinion they’d formed about the guy in front of them wasn’t overly based on the opinion she’d had of an awkward 17 year old.

Because, and here’s something you’ve never heard before: people change.

The person I was at 17 is similar to who I am now, but I hope not too similar. I hope that the past 15 years have changed me, have caused me to grow, evolve, yeah?

Thing of it is, I don’t know many people from back then, and I think that’s no accident. The people you know when you’re young, they have a very firm image in their minds of you, and it can be hard for that image, that opinion, to change as you change. It’s not uncommon to find yourself bristling at the way you’re treated by old high school friends who still see you as you were in those early days on the road to adulthood. Who still want that relationship, that dynamic they had with you in the beginning.

Think of your parents, who still see you, and maybe even treat you, as the little kid they watched grow up.

Now think about an artist, someone who’s developed and refined a style. Someone who’s built up a fanbase around that style. Over time, that artist evolves, evolves like you did from high school to now, smoothing out the rough edges, making necessary course corrections.

The artist isn’t exactly the same as they once were, they’ve changed.

And yet. There are fans who began following the artist because of that first style, that original feeling. And it’s not about which style was better, which version of the artist was better.

It’s not about which you was better, young you or current you. It’s that you’ve changed.

You are not the person you once were.

Which is as it should be.

As good friends, as good fans, we have to allow those people, those artists to change. Sometimes they’ll change in ways we don’t like, but to attempt to stifle that change, to not recognize it, that’s to attempt to subvert the Way Things Should Be. Ignoring change, ignoring growth, ignoring evolution, that’s a dog that just won’t hunt.

I spent the remainder of that barbecue last weekend weirded out by a reminder of my past, of the person I used to be, of the way I used to make my decisions. Of how different things were.

And then I was glad that the difference was significant enough to be weirded out by.

Usually. But this time, there’s people everywhere, even though it’s only early afternoon on a weekday, a time I’d have thought most Beverly Hills folks would either be in their offices counting their money or in their homes, bossing their help around.

(I can say these things, I grew up there.)

So, the problem is simple. People. Don’t like ‘em. Especially when they’re watching me take pictures. That’s the very reason I tend to avoid public places when shooting. Secluded parks, friends’ homes, lesser-known beaches, under a pier. I like quiet places with few people.

It’s not necessarily about intimacy, about someone else horning in on the relationship between myself and the model.

It’s not even worry, as Katie had herself a few outfit changes that required her to be mostly naked several times, and any one of those times could’ve seen us eyeball to eyeball with a cougar, or a bear, or a ranger.

It’s about me not liking other people watch me. Not the model, me. It’s about being able to hum to myself, make weird gestures as I try to figure out a shot, or demonstrate how I’d like a model to pose.

Because I, if you haven’t figured it out by now, am a strange person. And with that comes a good deal of eccentricities while shooting. At the very least, I’ll occasionally be in an awkward pose trying to get the angle of the shot just right.

And the last thing I need is some stranger ogling me and my model. This is not a show, I am not a circus animal.

Circuses are awesome, and I would love to be a magician or something. But I am not, so do not even think about looking at me.

I am a fairly private person, and I also detest having to deal with people I don’t know who will inevitably ask inane questions about what we are doing out in the woods with a big pink sheet and a half-naked woman.

I do not like having to explain myself.

I am basically an 80 year old man in the body of an extremely attractive 31 year old.

And the older I get, the less I want to deal with anything I don’t want to deal with.

Why do I dislike strangers watching me while I shoot? Because I fear and hate their judging eyes.

So, no judging eyes, no watching during a shoot. Let me work my magic, I’ll show you pretty pictures, how’s that?

I’ve spent my life being undone by fear, having it color my actions, having it, often enough the memory of it pains me, prevent my actions.

fear has kept me from living my life like I want.

So when I handed my card to Caitlin, it was a direct attempt to face fear, head on.

Because the second she came to the table as our waitress, I knew I wanted to take her picture.

I should say that it was a constellation of qualities that led me to that opinion, that it was the way she carried herself, the warm personality that came off her in waves, bearing.

But that was all secondary, man. It was that face of hers, first & foremost. And right after that impulse, that “ask if you can take her picture” impulse, was the fear. Fear she’d say no, fear she’s say no and scoff or laugh or vomit at the very idea.

Also, I had absolutely no idea what to say. This is generally a problem whenever I want to ask a woman….well, anything. But it’s of specific difficulty here because she was my waitress, and there’s a whole other mess of issues to deal with.

Don’t want her to think her tip is dependent on a Yes answer.
Don’t want my service to be affected because she’s resenting me putting her in a situation where her tip is potentially dependent on a Yes answer.
Don’t want to a No answer because she’s resentful of me putting her in a situation where her tip is potentially dependent on a Yes answer, and she’s so resentful she’s forsake her tip in favor of a very public No.

Such a problem!

It consumed me for the whole meal, as I turned the problem over in my head again and again, working it, trying to come up with some turn of phrase, some clever sentence.

My father is gifted in such cases. So gifted it sounds ridiculous, so ridiculous it must fail, and yet so upfront it is simply cannot fail.

So I just thought to myself, as I occassionally do, to varying degrees of success: what would my dad say?

I took out my card, handed it to her. “I’m a photographer, and I’d like to take your picture. Don’t answer now. Take the card, look at my website when you get home, you like what you see, email me.”

And it worked, she emailed me that night, we had a photo shoot later that week, and she’s been one of my favorite models ever since.

So what have we learned?

NOTHING. I’ve tried that same line on three subsequent occasions, only to have it fail all three times.

My dad would shake his head in shame. He knows that you can’t use a line, that you have to tailor your pitch depending on the specifics of the situation.

But the point, the reason those rejections didn’t bug me, is that each time I asked, each time I put myself out there to be rejected, each time it got a little bit easier.

That the enemy of fear is experience. That by doing that which I fear, I cease to fear it.

People ask me how I “do it.” How I find beautiful women to photograph. Same way anyone else gets what they want: by not being afraid.