looking like photographer without a camera

              In February 2011, I was hired by Deer Valley Mountain Resort to be the official photographer for the World Championships of Freestyle Skiing. This is next biggest event to the Olympic Games and this was the break in my career as a photographer. Eagerly I went out and bought the perfect (and sexiest) pair of plain black cargo ski pants I could find in the sale section of Skier’s World down on Main Street. Without trying them on, I took them home and packed them in my suitcase.

            On the first day of training, out in the middle of the ski course, with knee-highs made of snow, flakes of powder on my long black eye lashes, and the sun rising elegantly in the background, I took position to capture my first shot. As I clicked the shutter release, Anton Kushnirin in the frame nailing a double full-full off the fourth kicker, the crowd screaming wildly in excitement, all I heard was “rrrrrriiippppp.” The entire crotch and left leg of my new pants were ripped open at the seam; the white insulation now visible as the cold air entered my once warm body. My support team immediately tried to comfort me: “it is fine,” “you cannot even notice,” “that would of happen to anyone.” But I knew if I had taken the necessary precautions to choosing my outfit, my confidence would of still been in gold medal standings and my pants would not have been torn open like a bear attack upon raw flesh.

            Civilized members of our society strongly believe that a photographer does not have to worry about their outfit, because it is all about what they create with their hands and the expensive equipment they pretend to know how to use. Yet, here I am, taking the time to tell you that anyone can be a photographer, but the one who is going to be the most successful is the one who can feel confident and look like they know what they are doing while shooting – no matter what kind of lens or camera company is in their hand.  To become a professional photographer one’s wardrobe must reflect the utmost professionalism. You can achieve this by paying attention to color, the target market, comfort, accessories, and facial expressions. 

            Before you can start anything, you need to decide on a color pallet. Although an artist’s brain is spray painted with sea green blues, splattered with sunshine yellow, kissed with hues of purples, and melted with baby nose pinks; their wardrobe should be the complete opposite. I am talking deep charcoal black, highlighted with tones of grey, and shaded with even more black. Choosing a darker, mild toned, pallet will keep you sophisticated and classy. Also, it will keep you hidden. As a photographer you want to blend in, in order to capture a candid moment. You cannot really get that sneaky shot if you are standing in the middle of a crowd wearing a neon striped clown suit now can you? See I used to be naive like you, wandering into the public setting of the Utah State Fair looking like a walking rainbow. I did not understand why the only photographs I was getting were of old men scowling, their noses turned higher than a pug’s, and the bearded woman winking at me. Not really million dollar shots if you ask me.

            If you are having trouble deciding whether black or grey is good for you, I suggest heading over to your local paint shop. Pick out a few of Martha Stewart’s paint swabs, go home, and spend as much time as you may need holding the different pieces of dyed card stock to your face. Place it right under your left eye and watch your irises glow. Put the corner of the card next to that awkward cowlick in your hair and see those natural highlights gleam. Patients are key. When out on a shoot the color pallet of your outfit is important in order to keep your identity to “fly on the wall” (Cyrus, Miley. Fly on the Wall. Hollywood, 2008. MP3.) status while still looking your best.

            Next, decide what outfit best matches your target market. Your target market is your employer. He is the one who will hand you the big bills. Or the one who gives you free access to the bar once you’re done shooting Grandma on the dance floor at Uncle Joe’s third marriage reception. The target market is the boss. For example, if you are shooting a wedding, you will want to dress like you are going to a wedding. In this situation the boss is most likely the Bride. This is not the event to show up in your acid wash jeans with the matching black fur coat (Sisters, Scissor. Filthy/Gorgeous. Polydor Records, 2005. MP3) and thick Seattle punk eyeliner, when the Bride is clearly going for “cowboy country chic” (Style Me Pretty Wedding Design. 2011, March.). Dress simple, yet elegant. Women, put on a little black dress and a small strand of pearls. Men, tuck in your collared shirt and get out the bow ties. If your outfit matches your target audience you could walk home with a huge tip in your back pocket (and maybe even the seven digits of the second groomsmen from the Italian side of the family.)   

            Choosing the correct outfit is only half the battle. Before heading out to show the world your mad camera skills, one must make sure their outfit is both comfortable, and squat proof.  In other words, can you sit, stand, walk, slide, boot, scoot, and boogie (Brooks & Dunn. Boot, Scootin’ Boogie. Arista Nashville, 1992. MP3.) in it? You may feel like a fool, but one must test all possibilities of movement in the chosen outfit before calling it golden. Let’s say you are shooting a concert. Not just any old concert; you are shooting a punk-pop-rap trio concert. It is located in some dingy garage with nothing but red and orange twinkling bulbs to light up the cement room. It is an all ages show, meaning: there will be a lot of underage drinkers who can’t hold their liquor, guys in cut up “vintage” band tee’s with eyebrows covered in piercings so much that it almost resemble a shower curtain rod, and girls with red lipstick on their teeth. You have to make sure your outfit can handle that, so test it out. Stand in your garage with the lights off and a flashlight in your hand. Put lipstick on your teeth. Rip your shirt. Get your little brother to rap to a Lil Wayne song, without looking at the lyrics, while he bumps into you with a red SOLO cup of PBR. If you are comfortable after three hours of this, your outfit is ready for the next step.

            Let’s recap: you have your pallet, your outfit, and your squat/comfort tests all done. Next, it is all about the accessories. The minute you read accessories, three fourths of the men rolled their eyes and prepared to skip this paragraph. I am here to inform you that accessories are not just pearls and rings my friends. Most importantly it is all about what goes on your head and what covers your feet. Let’s start with your noggin. You want those long lovely locks out of your face. As a photographer, you use your eyes quite a lot and staring into a viewfinder with a piece of natural red bangs down the middle is not going to support your process. Pin it back. Men, get a hat that does not affect the camera to forehead ratio. Or maybe even try a little gel, you know, “get [slicky] with it” (Smith, Will. Get Jiggy With It. Sony, 1997. MP3). Women, a dainty headband or some decent bobby pins should do the trick. Remember, you are trying to work the camera, not “whip your hair back and forth” (Smith, Willow. Whip My Hair. Columbia/Roc Nation, 2010. MP3.) to get free booze. I once saw a guy photographing his friend doing a push shove-it onto the bank at my local skate park. He was flipping his “Justin Bieber bowl cut” (“Justin Bieber Hair.” Style Bistro. 2010, December 9. Kepin, Jason) to the left so much that it made me dial 911. The operator leaped into action after I stated that there was an emergency and to call an ambulance, because “a boy at the South Jordan Peace Gardens was having a seizure.” This false accusation did not end well for either of us. Moral of the story, pin it back or people will think you have a medical condition.

            We took care of your head, now we need to ponder the serious issue of your shoes. This relates back to dressing for your market audience and comfort. Choose shoes that match the part, yet you can stay in them for long periods of time while waltzing back and forth, and side to side, while getting those delicious shots. This is also your chance to get a bit wild. Because your basic pallet is neutral, you can play a bit of color into your outfit through your choice of shoes. Throw on some red flats, brown Doc Martin boots, or even blue Vans, to give the lookers a piece of your artistically developed personality. Do not wear brand-new shoes to a shoot. Breaking them in by standing for six or more hours will leave you with blisters and sore heels. You do not want to be the photographer at a Bar Mitzvah who missed the Horah dance while you were sitting down, because your feet hurt. Whether it is hats or shoes, remember to keep comfort and work sensibility in mind while adding a bit of pizzazz to your wardrobe.

            The final step is to keep your face in control. Do not let your emotions slide onto your baby soft lips. Do not let that eye brown twitch up in confusion. Do not wrinkle your nose is disgust. And do not wiggle your ears (because seriously, that is just weird.) Being a photographer means you have the chance to have a third eye, without looking like a Cyclops. You get to see a lot of hidden details that the average untrained eye misses. This could be a good thing, such as checking out the hiding blue butterfly tattoo on the hip of that new babe working the bar, but also a terrifyingly disturbing thing as you witness the ultimate flaws human kind offers publicly without consent. Like the old man three seats from you with his finger so far up his nostril you’re afraid he might scratch his brain. While you are surveying your surroundings make sure your facial expressions stay neutral. Even the slightest smirk or eye pop will make you, as a discrete photographer, detectable. Also, it is hard to take stalker shots if you are displaying your true emotions blatantly on your face. The world is an extra ordinary place filled with extraordinary sights. For example, I accidently turned a corner a few months ago and landed myself in the middle of a highly packed Gay Pride Festival in the Castro District. I would not have been able to get the picture of San Francisco’s own drag queen, Heklina, posing in front of the theater, if I was wide eyed with my jaw on the floor. I had to conceal my complete shock that this flawless, make up covered, high heeled woman, was actually a man. Make sure to keep your emotions in check by masking any facial expressions while on the shoot. This step is just as important as deciding between black or grey. Trust me.

            In order to be the ultimate photographer one must dress like a photographer. To get the most suitable behind the lens look you need to pay attention to: the lack of color in your color pallet, what your target market is (a.k.a. what the cash dealer will be wearing,) if your outfit is comfortable and squatable, whether or not your accessories support or destroy your professional tactics, and finally, what your face looks like while on the job. If these steps are followed correctly, and in that order, you will find yourself dressed to impress and your photographic abilities at top notch.

- above was my piece for my class, composition for the artist. : ) have a good night. xo 

tic

Remember this past summer? Well I do not know if I have previously mentioned it, but I morally supported (and a slight bit of profound acting if I may say so myself) some friends in their film for the 48 Hour Film Festival. 

The film won Best Film, Best Directing, Best Editing, and Best Score, for the Salt Lake City division. Unfortunately it was not awarded anything in the big show this last weekend - but that does mean it is finally released to the public!

Some incredibly talented people are behind this masterpiece. I proud to call a few of them my good friends and that I got the chance to watch it come together.

 I am pleased to present you with "Tic."

Tic - Best Film: Salt Lake City 48hfp 2012 from Connor Rickman on Vimeo.

For those of you who receive this through email, the link is as follows: http://vimeo.com/43800919

P.S. I seriously had the best morning ever today. Life is good. : )

xo

my roommate has a very contagious laugh

I have positioned the lamp on the right side of my desk to bounce light off the walls so it gently lights the petals of my birthday flowers. It is not lighting anything on my desk - the exact opposite of what it is designed to do. Instead, it is creating patterns and folds between light and dark against the white wall that stands before me. The city is busy, but with sounds of sports cars and sirens instead of the weekend puking and screeches of the puker's girlfriends.

For my english class we had to write an artist autobiography. I received an email today from my professor asking for a digital copy of my piece for future class examples because it "made (her) laugh" and she thought I was a very "advanced and talented writer." Since this blog is all about me, I thought I would promote myself shamelessly with this award winning autobiography about my journey to becoming an artist. (I will warn you that if you are an avid reader of Verbaledudette you will notice a few pieces and parts from previous "coming of age" posts. I did not cheat, I just took my best and put it with some new bests. Get over it.) Also, I promised my Parents that I would send it to them - this is the easiest way to do that (And this way Grandmother can get it too. . . love you Granny!)

The Chronicles of the Sketchily Challenged

            My first image-taking device was a plastic red and yellow, two handled, Playschool, 35mm film camera, received in 1996. Before I could put one foot in front of the other, my nimble fingers knew how to control the shutter release button. The first roll of film developed were artistic blurred landscapes, over exposed close ups of my Mother’s smile, and abstract designs of my Father’s ears.

            I grew up in a home where creativity was just as important as eating your vegetables. In the morning I was awaken by Macy Gray’s classics on the stereo system and put to sleep with Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” vinyl album rotating slowly on the turntable. The hours in between were marked with cardboard finger-painted cars, beaded ankle bracelets, and avenues filled with sidewalk-chalked rainbows. Christmas gifts were macaroni noodle headbands. Valentines had lopsided cut out hearts pasted with glue, glitter, and Goldfish cracker crumbs fallen from my focused mouth. And my family always looked forward to my annual birthday portraits that resembled more of Van Gough without an ear than my Mother with a flower.

            Uintah Elementary School was the only educational experience that promoted fantasy over actuality, through its school colors of neon purple and the unicorn mascot leaping for the clouds on the cover of our shiny planners. Naturally, I was eager to show my school spirit in the state wide art competition. I won first place in fifth grade for Photoshopping my little sister’s face on my old english mastiff’s head. The piece was titled: “My Favorite Things.”

             It was in sixth grade I found love. I spent the entire year with that cute silver point and shoot Canon. We were always together. He never left my hand, practically glued to my palms (except when I was doing the monkey bars at recess.) He captured the awkward moments of our ruling over the students in grades one through five. We documented life as a twelve year old trying to understand the difference between boy cooties and worms, the science behind the kindergarteners having their own playground, and why Mrs. Fraughten’s last name changed every summer before returning for the new year. All these collections, memories, and friends were put into a film for the end of the year talent show. After raving reviews, the thirty-minute movie was played at graduation while parents cried, my classmates giggled, and Canon and I watched our love story unfold publicly.

            After feeling like a star in elementary school, I figured that Clayton Middle School would accept my artistic talents with open and appreciative arms. That was not the case. In eighth grade, Ms. Owen took my final project in her hands. The piece was an oil pastel mountainous landscape with rivers of violets, sky blues, and grassy greens, running through purple tipped cliffs, and beige cumulus clouds. She ripped the piece, slightly off centered, in half. The tattered valley falling to the linoleum as her chapped charcoal lips muttered, “It was a mistake allowing you into advanced art.” As I bent down, my shaking hands grasping the pieces, I decided to go back to photography.

            East High was nothing but locker room make outs, Arizona Ice Tea’s, and Zac Efron enthusiasts asking for a tour of the famous “High School Musical” school. Moral of the story, my dark room developments were not greatly appreciated compared to the latest Justin Beiber break up. Not being able to really relate to the subjects discussed at lunch, I turned to the internet to try and find the perfect school for me once I graduated. In order to find that ideal match I, naturally, Googled my two favorite things: Italia and photography. There, in my search results, listed a school called Firenze Arti Visive. Call it physic powers or an seventh sense, but I knew this my school. I emailed the head of the photography department, with my childhood “hippychics93” email address, and told him that I was interested. Maybe it was the fact that I spelled “chic(k)s” wrong that made him question my talents, but his week late response was a bit reluctant and had a lot of phrases that summed up to: “you have to be over eighteen,” “you have to be recommended by a college professor,” “you have to be a graduate student,” and “I am sorry.” I read these words a few times, let them sink in, ate a few Skittles, and took this rejection as a challenge.

            Four years later, as the thought of graduation was deeply engraved in my mind and senioritis made it difficult to attend classes, I sent another email to Mr. Charles Loverme. This time I did not ask questions, I simply told him the facts: “I am going to attend your school and you will benefit from having me in your program.” The next day my inbox held a little number one with a reply. All it said was:

Send me your portfolio.

- Charles

Immediately I assembled every photograph of flowers, dogs, my little sister, and my grandmother in standard jpeg form.

            I did not hear from the school of my dreams for two months. February 4, 2011 at sixteen hundred hours military time, I received an email of acceptation into Firenze Arti Visive in Firenze, Toscana, Italia for the fall semester of 2011.

            Before I moved to Italy I had never been on my own. I had not been to camp and I rarely had sleepovers, always making up excuses on why I could only stay late or calling my Mom in the middle of the night to pick me up. I graduated from high school and leaped into a surreal experience. I went from always holding my family’s hands, to flying my way to a foreign country where I did not know anyone, the language, where to go, or what to expect. I was pushed out of my comfort zone. I was scarred, but never did I ever regret doing it.

            Italy changed my life.

            Of course the culture and aspects of a foreign country were striking and eye opening, but suddenly I was forced to make decisions between good or bad, motivate myself to succeed at school, fix my own meals, and wash my own clothes. It sounds silly, but I was forced to grow up. Forced to experience. Forced to find out who I really was. In Italy I realized what mattered, what made who I was, what I wanted to be, and how lucky I was. I discovered, in a school with only two other students, that without art, I would not live a satisfied life. It was in Italy that the burning passion to pursue photography was fueled by hours of film development, one on one harsh critiques, and pools of tears large enough to flood the Arno River.

            When you are little you talk about what you want to do when you grow up. You draw pictures of your dream room in notebooks, you plan your prom dress, go from wanting to be a princess, to Hannah Montana, to a teacher. Then one day, you realize that you REALLY can become anything. I cannot tell you the exact day I figured out that I could be a photographer as a career, but I can tell you that once the seed was planted in my head, I could not stop feeding it nourishment. I kept telling myself the negatives: the lack of pay, the uncertainty, what will people think of you choosing art as a job? Will they think you took the easy way out? All of those are still in the soil of my ambition, but they are pushing me harder. Prove them wrong. Be happy every time you go to work. Put your best out there. Make someone notice. That small seed that once sat in the back of my mind is now a tangled vine, large and ever growing. Consuming.

            That vine has now stretched from smoggy Salt Lake City to foggy San Francisco, where I am 

studying editorial photography at the Academy of Art University. I sit in class today, a vanilla latte in 

my left hand, and remember that old red and yellow toy camera.  Since then my cameras have grown in 

size and complexity, explored cities, captured memories, endured fears, provoked and promoted 

happiness, and helped develop a profound passion. Photography, for me, is more than a hobby . . . it is 

an obsession filled with deep desire and ardor. I aim to use my photographs to please the eyes, intrigue 

the senses, and inspire reaction, while forcing the observer to question emotions. I am hoping to 

eventually work for Rolling Stone’s Magazine and shoot album covers for my favorite musicians.


Hopefully my English teacher was not the only one who enjoyed that as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are a follower of my instagram (@audreyrotermund) or foresquare, you may have noticed that I have been quite the concert whore. Like seriously, I have been going to at least one show a week all thanks to the free tickets I have been winning. Most of the shows I have won have been decent, a good time, enjoyable. BUT the adventure I took Kayleigh to this last week was hands down the best yet. I am pleased to annouce that I walked away with not only a handful of images I snuck from the balcony (even though they said no photography.. hee hee) but also three new favorite bands. Ladies and Gents: please check out "Dream Tiger," "Astronautalis" and "Why?" I do not know where they have been all my life.

Have a wonderful evening. xo

it's my birthday

Sadly, I have gotten in the habit of only writing on monuments days. I should try harder to change that. Let's start with today. Today is my birthday. The big 20. My teenage years are officially over. I can no longer take advantage of being a "teen." Twenty is more adult sounding. I do not know if I like it.

I applied to get a job at Sephora. Our relationship lasted about a month. This month included three interviews that led me on, led me to believe we would be the perfect match. But today, actually yesterday, Sephora broke my heart after leaving me a one and half minute long voicemail telling me "the job I applied for as already been filled." Can you believe that? Least they didn't tell me over text message - then I would of had to break out the chick flicks and chocolate ice cream. What do they say? There is plenty more fish in the sea? I sure hope so because my fishing patients is wearing thin.

School is amazing. My classes are incredibly enthralling and I cannot wait to go to any of them.

Photoshop is a little slow paced and helpful - but finally I get to learn the tools by someone who knows what they are talking about. Did you know that I have been using the curves tool wrong this entire time? I know, embarrassing.
 

above: my marquee shaped animal - best of the class if I may add. 

My writing class is easy because I, obviously, love to write. We are currently working on autobiographies. The best part of this assignment is that the cute british boy "peer edited" my paper. If I thought my writing sounded good when I read it out loud, imagine a track star from England reading it in his fancy/incredibly charming accent. Mmm baby.

My favorite class is visualization. On the first assignment, I got high remarks from the class. Everyone loved my idea of illustrating the word "fear." The class was giggling and it was the perfect/creative comic relief in between the cliche spiders and drowning. Can you say "A?" : )

fear of commitment. 

Because I was top of the class my spirits were high going in to this last week. The assignment was "objective, subjective." Naturally, I turned to drug addicts for my idea. (Blame it on "Less than Zero" by Brett Easton Ellis.) 

objective: bloody nose

subjective: cocaine addict 

The class enjoyed the idea, but not as much as I thought. I was so excited about these images. I feel like I am officially breaking my comfort barriers this semester - this was the first step. I wasn't asking for a parade people - but a few "holy shit you are so amazing Audrey" never hurt! 

This week is "expected vs. unexpected." I would totally tell you my crazy idea, but I have already experienced a bit of idea stealing from someone who I thought was my friend. You cannot trust artists. Remember that.

My quality of light class is not as scary as the "dick" of a teacher made it out to be. I like him. He is not threatening at all. Also, I think he likes me because I dish a bit of sarcasm back at him every once and a while. We are learning every light option possible - even strobes (which if you didn't know, could kill you with their little black box of power!)

my friend Alicia in my perfect flat contrast shot. 

Overall, San Francisco is treating me well. I am incredibly homesick compared to previous semesters (and by that I mean - ever.) This big city is a bit lonely now that a lot of my friends have chosen not to come back to the Academy. 

This growing up thing is hard. I guess that means I am doing something right. 

Have a good night. xoxo