a rose is a rose.

Walking toward the cafe, after a slow traffic drive sound tracked by the lyrics of Bob Dylan in my black convertible bug, I stain my lips a deep red, check my bag for an extra camera battery, and unwrap a piece of Orbit wintergreen gum that I promise myself to spit out before entering the venue. The air is dry, nearing about one hundred degrees at eight-o-clock on a Tuesday evening.

            The Rose Establishment, which usually closes at five, has an odd sense of life and smiles decorating the outdoor patio. Bicycles are lined against the wooden fencing and the faint "clink" of coffee mugs and PBR beer cans greet each other. The handshakes are sweaty and warm as I introduce myself to the people amongst the stairs. Awkward exchanges of false compliments are heard between jealous girls in neon lipsticks and the men discuss a new brand of mustache wax that isn't sticky or female repellant. A drink is placed in my hand as I connect with a familiar face.

            Chuckling at a recent joke about Reese Witherspoon and stating my feelings on the change in the climate, I follow the fashionable crowd to the rooftop. The climb, taking three flights of wooden stairs, passes by flyers for events around the city next week. Taking my seat in the scattered second row, I breathe in deep, notice the sunset to my left, and begin to disappear from reality as the introductions of the first act begin to take pitch on the microphone. 

            Seated on the wired framed chairs is a couple. Genevieve Smith, a young girl with soft makeup and pin curls in asymmetrical positions. A light sundress hides behind the large cello that lies in her lap. Her partner, James Miska, a man who seems around the same age, is dressed in a grey vest with what I believe is a butterfly pin hanging over his heart. He cradles an acoustic guitar in his hands gently. The couple introduces themselves as Wing and Claw, the voices already harmonizing without a melody. Their sound is an intoxicating mix of moonshine and mason jar glasses. Instantly I am transported to countryside, sitting on a white chipped porch, the sun setting in the background. The crowd around me is taken by the same swoony romance as I am, our bodies swaying as our toe taps in the rhythm of the James’s foot. Unique lyrics traveled through each song starting with “freight” and ending with a rebel Bonnie and Clyde-esque “Criminal.” As they say their goodbyes, giving a shout out for future shows, a slight moan from the group echoes the desperate want for more.

            By this time the sun is hidden behind mountains and empty office buildings, the only light is given through a string of red LED lights that snakes through the chairs, microphone, and speakers stands. A foreigner takes a solo stance in front of the eager crowd. He tapes a book lamp to the microphone, pointing it like a spot light up to his face. He is well dressed, his leather boots pointed at the tip. Thick lips speak his name, Vikesh Kapoor, followed by his origin, Oregon. As he begins to play his acoustic guitar his personality shows through. Stories of snowstorms and famous contributors book end each song. He is humble. Nerves shake his hands slightly as he stumbles over words addressing the large foreign crowd. How hard it must be to stand before an audience without knowing a single person, but he treds through the passion of music translating through large smiles and closed eyes as his head throws back gently with the chorus. He finishes strong, wishing the crowd fair well in a tone that speaks happiness with a touch of relief.

            Without notice, the crowd stands up and begins to head downstairs. Lucky for me, I am more of a follower than I leader so I gently stepped down the wooden planks to the main floor. The lights of the little café have been dimmed and in the corner, nestled under the windows, is the final act. 

The Circulars, made up of Maxwell Ijams, Sam Burton, Cathy Foy, and Dyana Durfee, are positioned with their instruments. They are local band, made up of faces from familiar other groups. The laughter the members as they take their positions, collecting their instruments, and combing back their hair with a few fingers, highlights that they are strong friends, coming together to do what they are passionate about. Without introduction or even the slightest hint of a beginning, the bass and drums take off. Must different from the previous sounds, The Circulars evoke a sense of sadness hidden by the synth of the piano and the up beat cords of Sam’s acoustic guitar. The only source of light is the snake of red crawling beneath their feet. The band never stops to introduce a song. I believe at one point I heard them announce their name, but the sound of cymbals was still echoing against the wooden frames so I was left hesitant. The crowd is scattered through out the café. Seats are found upon countertops and floorboards.

            The evening comes to a close with their final number. It was a softer song, easing us all into goodbyes and exchanges of phone numbers. Many “thank you’s” and a few “come home with me’s” were heard through The Rose as I exited back onto the deck that began my adventure. The air was cooled by the night’s whisper as I walked to my car, the tune of local talent ringing in my ears.
 

Daft Punk: Get Lucky or Not?

           Originating from France, Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo’s Daft Punk has not only shaped and changed dance music since 1993, but has dominated it. This duo is the leading name of electronic dance music with their heavy bass drops and quick beat synthesizers. Daft Punk’s past three studio albums have held the reputation of the “robots” scientific, futuristic, sound. Even the album cover’s all share the same thick point italic Sharpie font. But, the fourth studio album “Random Access Memories,” released May 2013, is a foreign sound to what Daft Punk fans are used to. No longer are the heavy electronics, but rather soft 90’s pop guitars and poetic lyrical voices singing full verses instead of the trance like repetition of a single word. Even the album cover and font express a rebirth. No longer is there the simple title in the center in a vibrant color. “Random Access Memories” is written in the same font as Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” with the famous helmets glistening and newly polished in the center of the black square. This new renaissance by EDM’s top contributor raises the question: Can Daft Punk abandon all they are known for, alienating their original sound, and still keep their fan base, fame, and fortune? 

            “Random Access Memories” “exposes the human side of their musical impulses (Ken Tucker, NPR Music)”. Daft Punk has finally removed the helmets and reveled their inner nostalgia for the older generation of music.  In a Rolling Stone Magazine exclusive interview Bangater exposes the motives behind the new sound: “We wanted to do what we used to do with machines and samplers, but with people.” The duo and their “robot” collaborators stressed to experience the difference between technology and humanity, answering the question how do you feel true emotions in a high strung technological world where “ILY” replaces “I love you” easily as a quick Siri conversation? They have achieved this feeling. Listing through the album, songs like “Fragments of Time” would make you believe for all four minutes that you are not listening to Daft Punk. The smooth, jazz, sound transport you back to the days of slow dances and sways instead of high-strung clubs with half naked women and acid.

            This old school sound has scared some Daft Punk fans away. Diplo, a harsh critic writing under Stoney Roads, referred to the album as it “… makes [him] feel like [he’s] alone at waffle house and the jukebox is broken and only Micheal McDonald plays out of it’.” Another angry fan remarked “When I first heard daft punk I was in my teens and going to my first parties that played dance music.. With no words.. That was new world to me.” Disappointed avid listeners are turning away from the new album with disgust that Daft Punk would even consider trying to change their sound. They are known for the bouncy electro hype, not easy listening driving down a palm tree sweltered 80’s LA rode in a white convertible and loafers.

            “Random Access Memories” proves that Daft Punk remain masters of their domain, unafraid of making drastic direction changes in their art. The soft strings, the simple drum kits, and of course, the children’s choir, were not expected to come from the French electronic duo, but somehow it all works and we cannot stop listening. Time Magazine’s Dan Pfleegor wrote, “In 1968, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey taught that man became who he is by mastering his tools, not by being a slave to them. Perhaps too, robots can only pretend to be human for so long before parting from their synthetic origins and embracing the tangible.” Daft Punk’s fourth studio album “Random Access Memories” is a standstill between old and new, but they “robots” have not lost their charm and technique. 

 

to trouble your mind with the childish design of how it all should go.

            This semester has honestly kicked my ass. Pardon my blunt language (sorry Grandmother,) but I honestly have not been able to see a light at the end of the tunnel until now. I sit here, the Sunday night before finals week, completely exhausted and proud of myself. I have worked hard and I think it finally shows off in my projects and photographs. Finals in art school are different than what my friends in the state universities suffered through. See, I do not need a textbook or notes to study. It does not all come down to one written final exam or a five paged report reflecting my knowledge from the course subjects. I have one assignment that is large enough to bring my grade from an A to an F by something simple as bad exposure. I have four bodies of work that reflect everything I am as an artist. Sometimes I think I would rather take the bookwork, but then I remember that I love what I do. My finals are painful, but they are completely worth it because through the blood, sweat, and tears, I am smiling.

            In Photoshop my final was to take eight different photographs and completely “fix” them. This means spotting and repairs, taking out tourists, replacing skies, coloring trees and mountains, turning roads into rivers, and ultimately creating a new image. I did most of mine from my time spent in Italy. One, because I am constantly feeling the need to go back, and secondly they needed a lot of work.

Firenze School Days, Before 

Firenze School Days, After

            For my Composition for the Artist class I wrote an art review about Cristobal Hara’s photograph: N1 Alava, Province Spain, 1995. It was nice to focus in on one particular piece and dissect the hell out of it. It also improved my own photographs because now I look at each one and decide what it all means and what will my audience get from it. The following is an excerpt from my essay titled:  “Blood Red and Slightly Tainted.”

            Death is unavoidably attractive. It sparks curiosity, heightens all five senses, and pulls unforgivable emotions forward. N1 Alava, Province Spain, 1995, by Cristobal Hara, is a “highly evocative” (Howarth & McLaren, 77) photograph of the minutes following a fatal car accident. The centered vehicle, flipped over, horizontally frames the death of a young man trapped inside, while a woman reacts only feet away from her bloody passenger seat. The choice whether or not to help or click the shutter as a spectator is a tantalizing decision for a photographer. Does one capture for documentation/art and risk a life or future negative repercussions or do you let the perfect shot slide out of frame because it is the “ethical” choice to make? It is unclear whether or not Cristobal Hara approached the victims of the accident before or after taking the photograph, but his choice to capture the moment as a quiet observer approaching the scene sealed the emotional impact of the tragic event in a subdued manner. Hara’s use of subject matter, perspective, and color, generates an overwhelming sense of loss and a respectful gesture of privacy.

N1 Alava, Province Spain 1995 by Cristobal Hara

            Visualization brought the most creativity. With an open concept requirement I developed “Paper Faces.” While studying, living, and thriving, in Firenze, I learned the importance of body language through the Italians boisterous hand movements and my desperate need to communicate with a foreign tongue I only knew vaguely. It was during this time that I developed a fascination with the human body and human interactions. I became obsessed with observing people; loosing time in coffee shops to watching the customers come and go, taking note on how they stir their coffees or the detail in their wrinkled hands, and writing on sticky notes about how the boy next to me had an eyebrow that resembled that of shower curtain rod because of the ten plus ringed piercings that lined it.
            What I have learned is that facial expressions are the ultimate form of non- verbal communication as well as one of the most evident descriptions of our personalities. Whether it the natural part in your lips or the squint of your eyes when giggling, your face articulates emotions. So what happens if we remove all of that? Then what does your face say about you? Ultimately, that is the answer I searched for with the creation of “Paper Faces.”

            After sending out mass messages on various social media networks, calling all friends/enemies/met you oncer’s, and pulling random people out of the hallway, I ended up with twenty four individuals willing to model.             Over two days, the only light source being a large soft box, I photographed each person as if I was shooting a mug shot: please face me; now please turn for a profile. I did not ask them to do anything particular, wear anything special, or even brush their hair. I merely sang, “Come As You Are” by Nirvana.

            I edited each image to black and white, printed them, and played a game of matchmaker putting together his profile with her forward, her forward with her forward, his profile facing away from his profile, and so on, until I came up with a match for everyone and as many different combinations as possible. Taking the twenty-four couples, I narrowed it down to the best thirteen, in which I removed the face from each individual using an Exacto knife, a handful of patients, and a few Peanut M&M’s.

            The final step was to find a collection of different pieces of text (from magazines, books, newspapers, etc.) and pair it up with the coupled pairs, replacing their face with the words of someone else, and as an end result giving them a new personality. I took SF Weekly & the Guardian on Wednesday; thrift store shopped on Polk Street Thursday afternoon, and begged my friends to give me their old novels on Friday.

            I ripped pages, cut sides, and pasted carefully each text behind an anonymous headshot. The text, to me, was to replace one way of communication with another. After removing the face, the only way to know who these people are and what they are like is by their clothing, posture, and what the text tells us to think. Today most of society’s communication is done through emails, phone messages, letters, and so on. Have we lost our personalities because we no longer need face-to-face responses to communicate ideas? “Paper Faces” address the importance of facial features and expressions while highlighting the dangerous media repercussions our society faces with a growing number in advancing technology.

            *The final has yet to be re-photographed and made digital.

headshot sorting. 

removal of the faces.  

matchmaking. 

            Quality of light was my technical class of the semester. For every artistic choice you wanted to create, there was a rhyme, reason, and three strobe lights to do it. It was this class that I spent long nights and never ending days in the studio. I cannot complain, but I missed a lot of sunlight and fresh air because of the class – I can tell you that honestly and my skin is pale enough to stand as an example. For my final I was asked to create twelve studio portraits with at least eight different lighting styles. There had to be a simple concept to flow it together so I chose “black and white.” Although this one was not as much thought, it was a lot of work. I have to thank everyone who put in time to help me out. Thank you to my models (those of you I know and those of you I met briefly.) Alicea and Jasmine were my go to girls the entire semester. And most importantly Alex and Nic – without whom I would of probably knocked myself out with a boom or set the seamless on fire.

Tom Baboin, No Contrast Lighting

Alexander McNally, Rembrant & Backlight (Jesus LIghting) 

            The end of this semester doesn’t just mark the end of my full year at the Academy, but also the end of my time staying at the dorms (praise Jesus.) I have been incredibly lucky. My room was perfectly sized and had a lovely view down on the busy Sutter Street. I had two (& a half - Love you Phoebe) charming roommates. I couldn’t of asked for a better group of girls to start my adventure here with. We laughed way too much in room 501 and I will miss that. But goodness, I will not miss sharing my bathroom with thirty girls who don’t know how to dye their hair without dying the wall. Showering without flip-flops? I forgot what that was like. Let’s not even talk about the kitchen and worse – the café food. BUT overall, I am thankful for this learning experience and memories made at old Howard Brodie.

Kayleigh, trying to pack herself up on a Tuesday night.  

            Going home to Salt Lake City will be a heat wave. Not only is the temperature already twenty degrees hotter than it is here, but also I will be working as a breakfast waitress again at The Market Street Grill Downtown (so come and visit.) I will also be taking two online classes and hopefully receive an internship/volunteer opportunity through SLC Photo Collective. Then of course the minutes in between all of that I will be playing hard with my family, closing Coffee Garden with countless conversations, and dancing hard at the Twilight Concerts. See you there?

Fog from Caleb & Shawn on Vimeo.

This is a little video I stumbled upon. Not only is it breathtaking to watch, but the song ("Gracious" by Ben Howard) is my recent addiction. (Also, the lyrics are the title of this post.)  Enjoy. 

http://vimeo.com/57878898 

Have a wonderful week & wish me luck. Ciao, Ciao.

from smog to fog, or so i thought

          The summer before I moved to San Francisco from little Salt Lake City was the summer I grew up and fairy tales were no longer just in storybooks. I experienced lip-swelling kisses, sunset slow dances, and midnight drives that led to embarrassingly sober car karaoke. As I packed my bags that late August evening, I reminisced and dreamed about the future, thinking to myself “if small town Salt Lake’s boys were that good, San Francisco’s would be ten times better.” This idea was tucked in my back pocket, along with three dollars for “treats on the plane” from my Grandmother, as I bid my farewells to my friends and family at gate F8. This irresistible idea seemed to be on their minds too, because as they were hugging me tightly goodbye, I got more “bring me back a hottie” and “say hello to those Cali boys,” than “Good luck at art school.”

            I landed at SFO with a camera, oxford shoes, and my heart on my sleeve. I walked out of the terminal knowing this is where I was meant to be and in just seventeen minutes, if traffic was good, I would be walking the streets of downtown admiring my future boyfriends. In the taxi I dreamt of Miguel; the Spanish foreign exchange student with thick brown curls, who does graphic design and volunteers his spare time at the troubled youth center on Market Street. Or maybe his name was Jack. The blonde surfer with an all year round tan, who has a secret decadent chocolate cake recipe that he makes the first Tuesday of May, June, and October.  No, that wasn’t it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Brooklyn based troubled poet named Dean, who takes walks in the rain without an umbrella and loves tasting the lattes at a new coffee shop every weekend. Overall, I had this wild idea that a San Francisco art school would bring big city sophistication with a creative flare in men choice. Now writing this six months later, my relationship status set at an obvious SINGLE, I can tell you that there must have been something other than love in the air of that yellow cab.

            On my first day of class I walked up Taylor Street eager to make new friends, meet the man of my dreams, and learn a bit of photography (if I wasn’t too distracted with my future tantalizing love affair). The air was a bit foggy walking to class, but I could make out a charming boy with dirty blonde hair billowing in the slight breeze, coming down the hill towards me. There was something lovely about him that made me want to know more. I paced myself slower so we approached the building together. His leather shoes stepped to the side as his muscular arm reached for the door. I inhaled the alluring scent of roses and dark chocolate as his lips quietly smoothed out the words “after you, beautiful.” I stepped inside, smiling a playful “thank you.”  I acted like an innocent damsel in distress while I was looking at the lists trying to figure out what room my class was located in. Prince Charming stepped beside me. As if we were one with each other’s thoughts, our thumbs lifted up and pointed to the same classroom in the middle of the second board. It was meant to be. He smiled wide and said “See you there” in a dark enthralling voice as he walked around the corner. My heart pulsed against my ribs as I gracefully gilded up the steps to the second floor. I chose a table with an extra seat for my mysterious new “study-buddy”. When he walked in, without hesitation, he set his stuff down next to me. I didn’t even notice him sit down in the folding chair as his large hands grabbed my neck gently. Pushing my blonde curls behind my ear, he began kissing me passionately like Johnny Depp kissed Juliette Binoche on the boat in the movie Chocolat.

            Before I go on, I should mention that the expectations and the realties of my love life in San Francisco could not be farther apart. What was previously mentioned was not a lie, but it wasn’t completely true. On that first day of school, I really did walk up Taylor Street in the fog, yet the man I saw in the distance was scrawnier and not so billowed. He did open the door for me, and I did say “thank you,” but it was as romantic as stepping on gum in a Bart station. I don’t even think he was wearing leather shoes and he smelled more of body odor masked with Walgreen’s version of “Old Spice” than anything in a garden. Although I was the only one who pointed to the class (with my pointer finger, not my thumb,) he did say he would see me there. If anyone knows me, they know that I do not glide up stairs. I cannot remember the exact way I made my way up to the classroom, but I can almost guarantee that I tripped at least two and half times.  I honestly did think this guy would be my friend, so I sat at that empty table with that empty seat and eagerly waited for my new “study-buddy”. The biggest difference from my expectations and the reality was when my new friend walked in. He immediately set his bag on the teacher’s podium. The first thing his lips did, was not plant a large kiss on me, but rather they spitted the words “welcome to PH107, I am your teacher.” Obviously I was a bit mortified. But I shook it off and dismissed this lack of attention on my first day of class as the build up to something exciting.

            Weeks passed and I finally met a sweet boy in the cafe. He made the first move, sitting at my table nervously, striking up conversation, being interested in everything I had to say. I did not think this could go wrong. As dinner came to a close, we exchanged phone numbers. The minute I got home I told my roommates about the cute boy at the café and how we were destine to be married. He text me later that night saying something sweet like “goodnight” with a few smiley faces. I thought of him as a gentleman and I dreamt of us going to dinner all the time and laughing at each other’s jokes. Oh the conversation would never be weary and he would protect me until days end. In reality, he was the one I needed protection from. Those simple, little, texts soon turned in to a constant plea of attention. He would ask me what I was up to, I would tell him “movie night with the girls,” he would want to know “what movie,” “what girls,” and “where?” Thoughtful consideration about my where abouts soon reached the level of ultimate creepiness. I played it off nicely, until he started asking me to go on walks with him at two in the morning. That was the final straw.

            Then there was the sweet Swedish advertising student who asked me out on a blind date through my Instagram after flirting with me through comments on my fantastic iPhone captures.  I dressed up in my cutest casual chic and walked to the restaurant with the world under my feet. Here was my updated version of Miguel. So what if he wasn’t Spanish, he was still foreign and he still wanted me. I walked in to find not only one Swedish gentleman sitting at a table, but two. At first I thought, “hmm ... I can make this work.” A threesome was never really in my vocabulary, but the idea was tempting now that I was presented with the perfect opportunity and candidates. I sat down, we exchanged introductions and I immediately fell in love with both of them. As the meal progressed I was enlightened with the information that my Instagram lover had a serious fiancé waiting for him back in his home country and that he was not at all interested in dating me but rather loved my iPhonography and thought I would make a good friend to help him with future projects. Oh, and the gorgeous friend he brought along was his roommate, who created masterpieces with his bare hands because paintbrushes are overrated. And who loves to cook for his older boyfriend Sam, that also lives with them.

            Sadly, little upsets to my perfect plan happen more frequently than not. I moved to San Francisco with the expectations of finding true love in an abundance of sexy well-dressed men. Instead, my beautiful dream is contrasted with the harsh reality that I go to very large art school, in a diverse major that seems to be only filled with girls, and the all of the cute boys, in the entire city, are either faithfully taken or devotedly gay.  

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