Are you a professional photographer? Someone asked me
“No” Billy said.
I took it immediately personal.
Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. We were sitting at the same table, a mere hour after I had blasted through a roll of Portra 800 because he asked me to shoot some ‘cute’ pictures at his performance a few weeks prior. I was surprised at how my devastation actually grew over the days following til I erupted. The only reason he knew who I was was because of my photography.
I’ve spent months reviewing what I’ve shot, honestly spanning back into the late 80’s if we look at the prints still lingering in my dad’s coffee table. Visuals, for me at least, make memories real again. I wouldn’t have, what Daizy says are my powers of recall and reminisce had they not been supported by our very recent, very democratic process of photography. I wouldn’t have proof of all I’ve seen or done without stopping to cement a moment.
More often than not, I recognize what I’ve shot is what I love, or what I hope others will stop and look at as well.
Isn’t that a beautiful old car?
Old building?
Old FONT for crissakes!?
Nevermind the beautiful flowers, beaches, mountains, sunsets, that familiar face you always want to see?
It’s taken me close to six months to recognize it was a mixed statement. Not all ire, if a little because I was getting attention that might have been unwarranted. Mixed because it was quite obvious that I was passionate about fulfilling an ask, which prompted the ‘professional’ photography inquiry. I was only there because I really wanted to be. Even if the photography that resulted is actually quite bittersweet and telling, I was proud that I was asked.
I understand that passion and appreciation of beauty is not ‘professional.’ I cut off an opportunity to have that more nuanced conversation. It still hurt, in that, in a lot of ways I know I’ll never be seen as much. I wear my heart a little too far out on the sleeve for anything I create to be recognized as professional in this very very narrow, increasingly sterile world. This moment came after not one, but two opportunities to be seen as a real ‘professional’ artist slipped out of my hands, the more recent an abrupt about face that seemed to be framed to remind me that I’d always be less than because I didn’t play by the rules.
2024 had brought enough hurt, probably less than 2021, 2022, and 2023 but enough to know when to say enough. After All Saints Day, after cataloging the beauty that is cherishing those that have gone to the great unknown as only Fruitvale can with low riders, I stopped. I stopped until I was around the coven of creatives I’ve come to cherish in Philadelphia and Baltimore. The roots of inspiration run deep and aren’t politely pushed on, as Theo demanded I go out Upper Darby and walk back to Cobbs Creek to get a feel for somewhere I’d might want to build a home in West Philly. Ted asked me what I thought of Zach & Julian’s new house. I said it was just too big for just me. Ted chastised me for thinking I would always be alone.
I look at those photos and think of the nuances of safety in my own life layered in each image. The housewarming that still is taking COVID seriously, asking each guest to text results of a negative test. The shift to Baltimore and the relaxation of always grabbing Bryan away from his two monitors to have a two cocktail lunch, the holidays are in Sagittarius Season.
I came home again, hurriedly developed those photos searching for some message, some symbolism of hope, perhaps, something that would scream ‘professionalism’ in them. Billy was right, in that nothing I caught or thought I caught in over 300 images would be ‘professional.’ My god are there moments that make me cry that they’re over within them. How I want to relive those moments. How I hope for more opportunities to create something new with those old familiar faces. I’m never going to be a professional. I’ll always dance in melancholy and hope, the image tells the story over and over again. I’m foolish, sentimental and always craving to capture either a smile, a bit of a glow or twinkle, whether that’s in a paint finish or gleaming from eyes.
Why if I can recognize all of that above, does one sentence still hurt? It hurts less now for sure. I can reason that, it is real that I didn’t realize how important it is to me to share with others these moments. I don’t think I ever really understood how much care, how much I want each photo to inspire a story in a mind when I take it. How sad I get when, perhaps, I feel the message gets lost. I want time to slow down so, as life passes it has more weight, more meaning. Again I keep returning to my personal motto that the mundane is special and beautiful.
Billy is right.
That’s not professionalism. I pop onto LinkedIn to deride the culture of professionalism all the time, posting about #TeslaTakedown or #FreePalestine before I would consider posting Top 10 Interviewing tips. It wasn’t a perfect time to say it. It took me forever to process it, but so many have given me the pass on being ‘right’ that I’ve often forgotten what the truth from another mind and heart might look like.
It still hurt in also that, what I value is never gonna be what sets the majority of observing eyes afire. I’m forever gonna be an outsider looking in, which I have to make peace in that’s not what my life is about. I perhaps need, crave more assurance from those that have chosen to try to understand what I see and feel. I’m being more honest about that.
Caro took that personally about two weeks ago. I guess my pain was that palpable. I couldn’t, where I am now, with the stress of the world, see what was beautiful in my existence. It seems that I had nothing to show but loss. I couldn’t bare the tactile sensation of a shutter firing. I see to share, I guess, without sharing, there’s no point. No one comes over to look at things as much as we once did, even virtually as platforms we relied on just scans the imagery we produce and post on it as a focus group opportunity to market aesthetics right back to us.
Caro allowed a bit of mystery in the first 10 or so shots they shot on a Fuji Disposable Camera accompany a note that still is pinned to my fridge as a reminder. I wondered, honestly, if they don’t get to visit me in the Bay Area, what would be some things I’d want them to see, even without me, on an average day wandering the core of the Bay.
There’s less I could think of on a week where there was ironically, more death around me than had been in a while. Yet I still had to pump out 2 grant applications, figure out the logistics of another. What would anyone see if they were visiting me when I couldn’t get away from work. That’s it. That’s all. Yet it still inspired me to finish off the next 12-15 frames before I got back home. It wasn’t a professional assignment. It was such an act of care. A reminder to take the time to appreciate the beauty around me, no matter where I am. No matter where I go.
It was a level of excitement, a passionate desire to share I haven’t felt in months. I’ll never be professional because my vulnerability matters way too much to me. I can now understand, and forgive some fumbled words that struggled to protect me while understanding me. I realize I have to live with a host of the consequences of my reactions, my insecurities laid out above that I’ll never make a place in this society based on whatever I might create or cherish. That’s not the point anyways, especially as this society collapses on its sick understanding of ‘professionalism.’
Not being a professional, actually, is the greatest gift I have.
