"There are truly intelligent photographers who work in the studio, but it's not for me. Richard Avedon's genius was that he was a great communicator. He pulled things out of his subjects. But I observe. Avedon knew how to talk to people. What to talk to them about. As soon as you engage someone, their face changes. They become animated. They forget about being photographed. Their minds become occupied and they look more interesting. But I'm so busy looking. I can't talk. I never developed that gift. I have the same problem with my children. I know I have to be more involved, to interact more, but I love just looking at them." -- Annie Leibovitz, A Photographer's Life, 1990-2005
I spent a couple of years as a child giving my mom panic attacks in Arizona. I was old enough to make critical decisions about my future such as wandering around our apartment complex alone, but I was still young enough that I was defecating myself. Whenever I left the house I was searching for companionship. I wanted to meet people. Anyone. My complex had a variety of interesting denizens--although, who isn't fascinating when you're just a tyke.
There was a younger Latino boy who lived nearby that had a rat tail and beady eyes. He looked up to me only because I was taller. At the center of our complex was a pool and two young blonde girls lived across from it. They knew where all the extra lives were in Super Mario brothers on regular Nintendo. Down below us was a young couple who had the first Castlevannia. I borrowed it a few times, only to find it so infuriating I gnawed on the edges of the plastic controllers. There was also a man in his early thirties who had a black leather couch and would offer me caramellos as I hung out in his house. I think at this point my mother realized I was going to connect to people, whether she liked it or not.
I really wonder why nothing happened to me as a kid. I never remember any police raiding the house of the stranger who gave me candy. This genuine interest in people always made me grow up with little fear of them. I seem to always trust that the good in human kind will prevail, despite all the terrible things fed through the media. It has never, however, given me the reassurance I needed in personal relationships to maintain the trust necessary to keep them healthy. That's another story, perhaps one for my therapist.
I lost that fearless quest for social acceptance as school years proceeded. I bounced from Arizona kindergartens, to Colorado elementary schools, back and forth from Westminster and Arvada, and attended college in Lakewood and Boulder. There was one dark year I spent collecting dust in the basement of my parent's home in Kansas. All of these moves brought me into many social circles and I've always had to start over. Prove myself. It wasn't until high school that I started really doubting my stance in the world. I felt no strong connection to any social group: jocks, stoners, geeks, etc. I was in between everything, well, except maybe stoner, but only because I didn't smoke. The one thing that's always solidified my acceptance anywhere has been my humor.
Sarcasm is like social currency. The minute I sound like I have a sense of humor about myself and the world, people suddenly start feeling like they can accept me. I spent a lot of my life making fun of myself, but for good reason, I mean the only time I've ever been in a car accident was on my driver's test. I had to learn to shave my face from my mother. One of my friend's fathers had to tell me how to put my cup on in the middle of pre-game practice. Little things like that pop up in my life that always remind me if I take myself too seriously the universe will rein me back in. It's somewhere in this self-mockery that I learned to have confidence-albeit a little jaded. It's in this period of social discovery, sarcasm, and trying to penetrate multiple social groups that eventually made me fearless among any individual or group in terms of making conversation. I had to quickly navigate social situations to appease my peers, so I could avoid being picked on, or feel a vague form of acceptance.
It's all I know. Social survival. I know before I even pull my camera out of the bag that social "foreplay" is necessary. If there is tension in the relationship between the photographer and model, it will show in the final product. When two or more people working on a shoot do not feel at ease, nothing real can be achieved. There is a delicate balance I've discovered with this in the studio, where all elements have to be perfect to really bring out the enchantment of a photograph. Good models can do their best to make a photograph pop but if the photographer has no social presence, they are at the mercy of their subject. The camera becomes a tool, not for art, but for manufacturing what an industry wants, or what seems socially acceptable. I'm finding more and more in my own work that my photographs are a projection of how I see myself and the world. I am thankful that my childhood taught me how to fit-in, it's just left me a little lost as I've gotten older.
This is my last year in my twenties. I'm sending off arrogance when all I'm trying to be is confident. Sometimes I brag about what's going on in my life, trying to notify people they can accept me for these deeds. It's not meant as harmful but it always seems to bring up the insecurities of my peers, when all I want to tell them is that I'm right there with them--insecure, lost, looking for meaning. I'm human. That's our damn quest through all this social interaction. I'm no better than anyone-- not at photography, comedy, or living a life. This is my first time too.
Music recommendation:
Tigers That Talked - Artificial Clouds
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwWt81Vn-sA&feature=related