I favor routines, and in addition to it being far less work to shoot around my house, as opposed to driving to some far-off (yet scenic!) location, there’s also something intriguing about placing different people in the same situation, seeing how people respond differently, how they work in individual ways against the same backgrounds.

And I’m lazy.

But it’s also art, man!

More importantly, it’s a way to get out of my apartment, which I like to think makes the models more comfortable. Asking them over to my place to shoot always makes me a bit nervous, not sure if they’ll see that as suspicious, so taking them outside on a wee adventure helps alleviate that in my own mind.

It’s also an excellent way to foster conversation, as two folks walking in silence along some city side streets is almost too awkward for anyone to bear.

Justine and I easily fell into talking about all kinds of stuff: boyfriends, American Apparel (where she used to work), skeevy photographers, art, life, all that fun stuff.

Because, and here’s the big thing, I need the models to take pictures. I need more than just how they look, I don’t have big ideas in my head about a particular shoot, I work off of what I get from the model I’m shooting. The more time I have to observe them naturally, as they talk, laugh, question, as the natural range of expressions cross their faces, that’s where I get the chance to see things I want to photograph.

Amongst the many other ways to break down various photographers, you can divide us into two categories: those who have an image in their mind, and seek, through photography, to create that image in the world; and those who seek to capture something they see in the world, through the lens of their own personal point of view.

Me, I’m that second kind. I cannot create a photo out of whole cloth, I need something, nay, someone to work off of. A model with a lot of personality gives me loads to work with. A model who is just a walking hanger for their clothes…yeah, that’s gonna be problematic.

Maybe I’m just not that good.

But I don’t look at it that way. I’m after some aspect of a person, something truthful, something honest. But I am not so talented a psychologist that I can see that something just by looking at someone. I need to engage, need to observe and interact with my subject.

And so, conversation.

And so, walking through the streets, telling jokes, asking questions, making statements.

And so, good pictures, hopefully.

I remember, several years ago, having conversations about it with friends who were also gaining a following on Flickr, wondering at what it meant that people liked our work, how to respond to their emails asking for advice.

It comes up, these days, every once in awhile, in various ways. In relation to the photography workshops I’m teaching this summer in jolly old England, in discussions on how I seem to find all my models, or included in a question on how I talk to my subjects, get them to appear comfortable on film, when talking to Natalye here, who stopped by my place to have her picture taken while visiting LA.

To boil it down to a single sentence: lack of humility.

I can’t say if it’d work for everyone else, but not being very humble has treated me quite well.

Matter of fact, I’ll probably end up making this part of the workshop, that’s how serious I am.

When a fellow photographer asks how I interact with my subjects, how I put them at ease, I tell him quite simply: I tell my subjects not to worry, that I am a very good photographer.

That with a digital camera, I’m pretty damn good. With a medium format camera, I’m very very good. And with a Polaroid? As a Polaroid portrait photographer? I’m one of the best in the world.

Now, sure, it’s a bit of an exaggeration. But you should see the look on a subject’s face as I rattle all that off. It’s not one of disgust, or annoyance. They know that it’s probably not true, but they’re at the very least comforted by the fact that I’m not nervous, that I’m confident that the shoot we’re about to have will go well. And that feeling, that idea that’s coming off me in waves that this is gonna be a good thing, it’s infectious.

A lack of humility can be a good thing. If you’re vocal about it, if you can keep it simple, keep it as a sign of confidence without becoming obnoxious (and I’m sure my ex girlfriends would say I’m not terribly adept at walking that fine line), then you’re showing your subject something of crucial importance in a shoot.

You’re showing them that you believe, quite strongly, that this is going to go well. That you’ve taken stock of them, and think it’s gonna go just fine.

There’s a visible change in a subject as you make them more comfortable. When the photographer, the one who’s looking at the photos, taking the photos, who’s sized up the model and made a judgement, when that judgement is “these pictures are gonna be awesome!” it has a visible effect.

The models laugh when I give out that little speech. Many raise an eyebrow, incredulously. But they all smile. Shoulders relax a bit, limbs loosen up. How you feel about yourself has a palpable effect on your subjects. You give off a sense of shyness, that is reflected in the shots.

You come off as playful, you’ll see that in the photos. Fun, weird, tentative, whatever you’re putting out, consciously or unconsciously, you’ll see that in your work.

So when you want to shoot a subject, and you want them to feel confident, feel safe in the idea that things are going to go well, it can’t hurt to give them a little assurance.

Lack of humility. Or, to put it another way, Confidence is infectious. There ya go. And, bit more humble, that way.

I’m a black photographer. THAT IS SO WEIRD. I’m a black writer. CRAZY.

Owning those labels, wearing those hats, if for only a second, makes me wonder about responsibility.

Do I have a responsibility to speak about a particular experience? Should I, somewhere in my writing, speak up for black folk?

Should my photography talk about the Black Experience? Should I only take photos of women like Janette?

And as soon as I start asking those questions, I realize how limited the idea of a single Black Experience is.

A person looks at me, thinks black.

But my dad’s from Panama. My mom’s from Minneapolis. I was raised and educated in Beverly Hills.

My skin lies to you.

And I’m rather glad of that. I look at the hands typing this, and they bear no relation to a shared experience, to a racial identity.

As it should be. My skin has not determined my fate. Raised in the blender of cultures like I was, my skin means my chances of getting skin cancer are low.

Because that is what it is for.

The term Post-Racial has been used a lot since the presidential election. Is this what it means, that you see a black person, and all you think is how lucky they are they are resistant to UV rays?

I’m sure this would be more potent if I had an answer to each question I pose here. But to assume there’s only one answer, that’s part of the problem. A cure for racism lies in going against what our minds do with every decision, every calculation. Forcing the mind to take each person as an individual, to reserve any and all judgements until fresh information comes in, that there is near impossible, and requires a conscious effort greater than anything else we ask of the human mind.

And even if racism was 100% eradicated, there’d still be the effects of centuries of inequity.

Let me simply ask you this: next time you see someone of another race, if you can, think of the black panamanian jew raised in Beverly Hills who likes rock music and comic books and photography and Henry Kissinger and Wes Anderson and Annie Liebovitz and Chuck Palahniuk and Jay-Z and chess.

And wonder if the stereotypes blooming in your mind are worth anything at all.

Terry Richardson may be a good person. As yet, none of the allegations have extended beyond talk, in public and on the internet.

I choose to reserve judgement, I know none of the people involved personally, I know only what I’ve read of the affair on various blogs. I don’t automatically assume he’s guilty because of the nature of his work. I don’t assume he’s innocent based solely on the fact that other artists have rushed to his defense.

I don’t know the facts, what really happened, and I don’t want to be the kind of person who defends him because he’s a popular photographer, or condemns him because his work pushes certain boundaries.

Does simply being a photographer make one suspect? As a photographer, yes, yes it does. I welcome the suspicion when I meet a model for the first time, means the model’s got their head on straight. Because it’s a strange situation, one that, in addition to lovely folks like myself, also attracts a variety of people who are in search of a position in which they can exert influence and power over others.

Because for me, it comes down to power. We, as the photographers, have power. Terry Richardson, in particular, has a great deal of power. And that power has to be taken into account during a shoot. Merely saying “you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to” is but paying lip-service to the responsibility of those with power.

When a model walks into my apartment for the first time, like Leslie did a few weeks ago, the discrepancy in power is clear. She doesn’t know me, doesn’t know if I’m a nice guy, what I’m really intending with our shoot.

It’s up to me to reassure her, to put her at ease, to make her feel as comfortable as possible. If I’ve got certain ideas for the shoot, it’s my responsibility to let her know.

In a way, it’s up to me to exert as little power as possible in the shoot, to put things on as even a footing as possible.

Sometimes I’ll ask a model for something uncomfortable, standing in the cold, remaining in an awkward pose. I always do my best, even in such mild circumstances, to make it perfectly clear that the shot is not the most important thing. They, as people, are. It’s not uncommon that I’ll have an idea in my head and dismiss it, knowing it might be less than fun for the model.

The photo is just a photo. It’s people that are the important thing. Creating an atmosphere of comfort, so that the model is more at ease? That’s excellent, that’s what I attempt as often as I can. Talking to a model for a good while before shooting, getting to know them, letting them get to know me, letting models punch me. All ways of putting us both at ease in the situation, creating a feeling of collaboration, making the model feel they’re more involved in the process than just standing still while I fiddle with my camera. There’s never an idea so good it’s worth affecting someone negatively. Exerting power to force someone, whether that force be overt or subtly exerted, that has nothing to do with photography, man. That’s a very different dynamic at play.

Creating an atmosphere in which to get a model to do something I think they might be resistant to? I reject the premise of that argument. It’s trickery, all the more suspect because it’s so elaborate. Nothing a popular photographer does can actually change the dynamic of power in a photo shoot, especially one with a neophyte model. If an idea is good enough, there are always people willing to participate. Why go to any lengths to break down a person’s resistance to your idea, if there are so many others who would be more than happy to be a part of.

Forcing someone to participate, that’s not art. It’s not breaking down boundaries. It’s not about freedom, liberation, not about letting go or being Real. It’s violence.

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.