Adventures in Photography

Had a routine shoot in Woodacre today - just west of Fairfax in the country. Been out there many times - it's aptly named - acres of woods, dirt roads, muddy roads, no Peet's - pioneer living at its finest.

The directions I had told me to "go to the end of the paved road" after cruising through a short stretch of unpaved, un-maintained county road. I read the words "paved road" but in my rusted brain, I heard "dirt road."

I drove the short stretch of unpaved road - muddy and full of deep ruts and thick puddles from the recent rain - and when I got to the other side where the pavement picks up again, I turned to the right as the map indicated.

It was more dirt road, and my idiot brain said "go to the end of the dirt road." I've had to get to such locations before, so this wasn't new or strange.

But this dirt road... a muddy disaster waiting to happen, was almost less than one-lane wide and had a few downed branches here & there. I drove for a few minutes, seeing *nothing* up the hill and realized I couldn't be in the right place.

Found my map and sure enough, I'd driven right by the property when I turned onto the second dirt road. There aren't any curbs or curb numbers in those parts.

Thankfully, the XC-70 had no trouble going up or down the mud slide, gently rolling over & along the ruts sort-of like how you'd walk a horse down a steep hill. Fun!

Got back down the hill and turned onto what I thought was the long, paved driveway to the house - again, not seeing any house numbers anywhere, I followed the actual directions to "the end of the paved road." This was definitely a road and it was paved and it went up the hill to two houses.

I went all the way to the end where I found an old beater car parked on one side of the road and a 4WD truck on the other. There was an old cast iron tub perched in the brush beyond the truck and other discarded items & junk strewn around the driveway.

It's not uncommon to see trash ready to be hauled away when a house is going on the market... So I started up the steps to the front deck, which had a Beware of Dog sign posted at the bottom. When I got up to the deck (about four hundred steps, with a bee trying to stab me the whole way), it was littered with dozens of empty beer bottles, lawn chairs & more junk.

I thought... This doesn't seem right... I stood there for a few minutes, wondering where the agent was. And the dog. I almost knocked, but there were no signs of life inside. It wasn't quite 11 a.m. yet - way too early to be up after drinking that much beer.

From my sky-high vantage point I could see a cute little house down below... a house that looked ready for photographs, with cleaned up landscaping and new flowers on the deck. Sure enough, I'd gone one house too far on the little narrow road.

Good thing I got there early & the realtor had no idea I was standing on the neighbor's deck yelling her name.

(the wrong house, at the end of the road and about two miles straight up the hill to the right of the white truck)

(the right house - no junk, no beer bottles - quite lovely)

Snarktacular Wednesday

I had to go up to Sonoma this evening for a "dusk shoot," which I never enjoy, because when "dusk" arrives, I should be at home in my sweats watching the news or enjoying post-news reruns whilst eating my dinner.

But because I have to go, I went, at the peak of rush hour. I anticipated bad traffic and left early. Early enough to stop and get a sandwich at Whole Foods - the easiest thing to eat while driving (and texting, changing CDs and painting my nails).

Why is making a sandwich so difficult? How is it that only one sandwich in ten is made according to the order? I either get the wrong bread, the wrong meat, the wrong toppings - something - something is always wrong.

Tonight it was the bread. Instead of sliced sourdough, they used a baguette. Maybe it's just my wussy mouth, but I can't eat a sandwich on a hard roll without tearing up the roof of my mouth. So irritating.

Also irritating? Peppered roast beef. Who came up with this stupid idea? All I could taste was pepper. Are these ideas hatched in a food lab staffed with heavy smokers?

At the shoot, the agent followed me around from room to room the entire time. Like a nervous puppy, he hovered behind me during every shot. I wanted to smack his nose with a lead pipe rolled up newspaper.

Not any better was the hovering stager who kept asking if I wanted to move anything. If I want to move it, I'll move it. See these things hanging off the ends of my arms? They allow me to pick shit up and move it somewhere else - it's fucking brilliant - watch me do it.

In one room she asked me if I'd heard of a guy - a photographer she's worked with before - you know, because at night they round up all the photographers all over the county and put us all in one big room where we can't get into any trouble.

I told her I hadn't, but what I *should* have said was, "Oh John, the guy who takes all the great photos of naked children? I love that guy's work!" She continued and said, "I've worked with him in the past - he's pretty good."

That's great. What am I supposed to do with this information? I left my random chitchat diary at home and I've nowhere to record this exchange. Have you heard of not loitering in the room where I'm working? It would be super awesome if you could move your ass the hell out of the way so I can finish up this job and get the eff home.

But hey, if you want to pay double for an evening shoot that won't make your generic house look any different than it would at 11am and follow me around like an anxious chihuahua, to each his own. Good luck to ya.

Peeved

Last night I was excited about having all day Saturday to focus on the kajillion things left to do for the move when I got a phone call.

Someone needs an urgent photo shoot - a test shoot to help sell a new contract. Greaaaaaaaaat. I called the agent and right from the start it was clear that she has a ginormous bug up her ass (in the shape of her own head). Not only is my Saturday going to be ruined, but now it's going to be ruined by a total asshole - even better.

We finally agreed on a time and while I was trying to get her to tell me the address, she asked me where I'm located. First, what the hell does that matter - is she planning on coming to my house to make me breakfast?

I tell her I'm in Alameda and she says, "Oh that's so far away!" The job is in Tiburon. I told her that's only about 30 minutes from me. "Oh no, that's at least 45 minutes." Again, who gives a shit? Is this really important?

Trying to lighten the mood, I told her it doesn't take that long if I'm driving. Then she says without any trace of humor whatsoever, "What are you driving, a helicopter?"

Yes, as a matter of fact, I have my own chopper and heliport here in my back yard. The neighbors hate me, but I think it's important to have options.

This agent is supposedly one of the wealthiest in the country, selling homes to celebrities and billionaires, and unfortunately, she's a humorless troll. She started asking me about equipment and how much time I could spend photographing this house, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I suspect I'll get there and she'll immediately start telling me what to do and how to do it. And just like the other day when I couldn't hold my tongue, I'm not sure today will be any different. I couldn't care less about this house, its views, how much it's listing for or what she wants me to photograph. She can have a big giant poster print of my colon.

Had she been at least polite or in any way flexible about timing or not grilled me on where I live and how long it takes me to drive, she might have been in for great service, but right now, it's all I can do to not call and cancel.

But just like Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, I'll go, because if I don't, she'll just keep calling me, and then I'll end up killing her with my tripod.

If she turns out to be just as shitty as she was on the phone, I'll quietly gather up my stuff and leave without saying a word, because all I care about is getting this move behind me and starting the next chapter far away from this bullshit.

Update:
She arrived over a half an hour late, which is funny considering how concerned she was about me being able to get there by 11am, and she lives five minutes away. Amazingly enough, she camped out in a small corner of the house and made numerous phone calls, allowing me to work without distraction.

Many times she mentioned that she has two chateaus in France. Two. Chateaus (or chateaux, if you want to be really frenchy about it). In France. She asked me if I could scale a 6-ft. tall property fence to get a better shot of the front of the house, to which I said I would not, but I would gladly ask the neighbors up the hill if I could use their deck. They weren't home, but I tried.

While trying to weakly explain a particular shot she wanted of the back of the house, I thought about pushing her down the stairs right into the pool, but I didn't want to spare the extra time. At ten after 1pm, I said I really had to get going, to which she quickly replied, "Oh I have to go, too, I have clients waiting for me..." She was probably very late, but who cares about time when you have two chateaus in France.

What's In a Name

Not much, apparently. In the past 24 hours I've been called Andrea and Claudia, by two different people at least, though one person did admit that Andrea was not at all close to Jennifer.

I was forgiving and blamed it on syllables - I've been called Melissa and Stephanie in the past, also three syllable names. I've also been called Laurie when people mistake my last name for my first name.

But Claudia? Rhymes with dirt clod Claudia? Really? Where in the world did that come from? And she called me that just moments after using my actual name.

I have to believe that some folks are on Rx meds stronger than anything sold on the street in a tiny vial or plastic bag. We all forget names, but I think most people realize they've forgotten and either edit creatively to avoid including a name in whatever they're about to say or they admit it and ask you to tell them again.

While I'm at it, you know what's starting to really bug the shit out of me? When people are trying to tell me what they want me to photograph and instead of saying, "I like XYZ and would love it if you could..." they say, "I don't know... I wonder if there's a way..."

I don't know either - maybe nobody knows. I'm sure there's always a way, but if you want to stop and wonder about all things possible, let's do that. Let's stand here and wonder what all might be possible while time slips away and we all grow old wondering how in the world I might capture a shot of what you just showed me on the back of your own camera.

Rather than be direct and tell me what they want, they start off with the hemming and the hawing of I don't knows and I wonders while literally showing me what they've already shot. So I guess it IS possible! You've done it! My work here is done!

I know I sound like an asshole, but I'm there to work - I'm not struggling with trying to make art - I'm trying to help sell something - tell me what you want - I'm working FOR you. This work is not my art, it's your product. Don't say "I don't know" - you DO know, so ask for it! You get what you want and we can all move on that much faster.

I don't know. I wonder if there's a way for that to happen.

No Pressure [vomit]

I just finished talking to an agent about a couple of properties, hearing about the architectural attributes of each and things we'll need to keep in mind for the shoot, etc. - nothing out of the ordinary - until he told me that one of these homes has been photographed by a number of "famous" photographers, including Queen Elizabeth II's photographer.

Maybe I should know who that is, but I don't, and now all I want to do is throw up and purge this intense feeling of dread I have about this job.

What the hell am I walking into? Have they SEEN the work I do? I mean, I dearly love my cat photos and snapshots of partially eaten food and melted gummy bears on the sidewalk, but I'm not sure QE II would hire me. Then again, the British do tend to have an exceptional sense of humor... but I digress.

I feel like I'm being set up. I don't know if I can even start to come close to what this guy might be expecting. I'm sure it'll be a valuable learning experience and I'll do what I can, but it's going to be hard to get good shots while vomiting and shaking uncontrollably.

I Love the Universe

I was not looking forward to today. It was going to be a marathon day of driving, like, over 150 miles, which might sound like the best time ever, but let me assure you, it gets old QUICK.

Sometimes that's just the (bad) luck of the scheduling draw. I'd love to plan everything in neat geographical groupings, but it usually doesn't work out that way. I was going to have to start in Sonoma then go down to Fairfax then head back up to Petaluma. Fuuuuck me.

Looking at my calendar last night I kept thinking I should call and try to swap appointments, but I hate doing that - it's not their fault it turned out like that. I sucked it up & went to bed early.

This morning, my phone rang just moments after I turned it on. It was the agent in Petaluma and she had to reschedule. I almost cried hot tears of joy right into the phone.

Thank you universe! Even the universe knew it would have been asinine to drive all over the state like that.

Widows & Rattlesnakes

Yesterday I photographed a little country estate in Kenwood, and to prep a particular shot I began to move a garden hose off the driveway into the hedges. As I moved the hose the agent casually called to me from across the yard, "Watch out for rattlesnakes."

I sprang away from the hose and asked "Are you shitting me?" and she said No, that rattlers like to hang out around water and will sometimes curl up in the hose. Damn - good to know. I need a special training class with this sort of information.

Later, while photographing the pool, I opened up two patio umbrellas, carefully watching the ground all around the pool for snake-like shapes, feeling very under-dressed in regular, non-Kevlar pants and shoes. A Kevlar jumpsuit, really, is what I should have handy.

I finished the shoot and went to close up the umbrellas. While closing the second one, I noticed what appeared to be a large-ish black widow hanging out in the folds of the fabric.

Alrighty - that's enough umbrella time. I grabbed my shit and ran off that patio, high-stepping over a well-manicured lawn with a horrendous case of the heebie jeebies. What might be waiting for me in my car, a scorpion? A wasps' nest?

We may not have beautiful, wide open country vistas out of every window or a Chanel-like pool in the backyard, but at least I don't have to worry about grabbing a rattle snake when I water the plants, and I think that's wonderful.

Soft Hardwood

Today I photographed a beautiful home - couldn't have been more than a few years old - all the materials (appliances, floors, fixtures) looked brand new and super high quality.

Sometimes the homeowner or agent (or a polite sign at the door) will ask me to remove my shoes, which is fine - when in Rome - but if there's no sign and no one asks, I use the heck out of the welcome mat and remain shod and no one bats an eye.

I generally wear nice shoes that haven't stamped out flaming bags of poo. And I just feel more comfortable working in my shoes - maybe because I'm working, not about to curl up on the couch and watch a movie, and I'm in someone else's house. I don't want their floor yuck on my socks.

Not only that, but aren't floors supposed to be able to withstand shoes? I mean, unless you're wearing track spikes or the flooring material is cheddar cheese, any standard floor should stand up well against typical shoes. But I digress. It's no big deal, so I go with the flow.

Today I kept my shoes on, though I did notice there were a couple of pairs of shoes near the front door. Call me sneaky, but I cruised right by them and got to work at the other end of a long hallway.

As I was getting ready to shoot, I could hear the unshod ones talking about moving their shoes out of the way so they wouldn't be in the shot, and while talking about having removed their shoes I heard, "These hardwood floors are really soft."

[Scooby Doo noise] The hard wood is soft? So these are softwood floors? Is that a new trend in modern home construction? Is that because we're all so sedentary now that our joints can't take the pounding of walking on hardwood floors? I'm confused.

Aside from not-so-soft hardwoods, in these neighborhoods there's even less reason to remove one's shoes, because there isn't a speck of dirt on any of the streets or sidewalks. There's nothing you could track into one of these homes. An army elves keep these neighborhoods absolutely spotless. It's like walking through Disneyland - sparkling clean.

If we were in the Tenderloin or the Mission, then it would make perfect sense. You could easily track syphilis and hepatitis into a home in those areas. On any sidewalk you can choose from gum, trash, used condoms, needles and sometimes human excrement, to name a few.

Maybe that's why I like to keep my shoes on. After many years of city livin', the thought of removing my shoes is never first on my mind, no matter where I am, and I'm still careful about where I wear open-toed shoes.

Wear The Hat

Like a dumbass, yesterday I decided not to wear the hat I'd brought with me while hiking through wooded areas of northern California. I didn't think we'd be out there for almost 3 hours!

I realized last night that my eyes were sunburned when I couldn't stop blinking in an effort to alleviate the mild burning sensation. It was so mild, I just thought my eyes were dry, but then I realized what happened.

My right eye feels like it has sand in it, but the left one, behind the camera most of the day, feels OK today. Man, if it's not one thing...

While hiking through the property we found this - check out the tusks!

Drunk on Beautiful Design

Today I photographed a beautiful home in SF and every room was oozing with meticulous, satisfying designey goodness.

I'd be happy just living in the kitchen with the gorgeous marble counter tops and built-in buffet/bar, restaurant-grade Wolf range complete with water spigot, and enough counter space to perform surgery on at least 8 average-sized adults simultaneously.


The little girl's room looked to me like what Clara's bedroom might look like, in The Nutcracker. I wanted to be 5 again and grow up in that room. When I closed the door to get a different angle, I saw that she had two pairs of small angel wings hanging on the doorknob.


Maybe I could ask them to adopt me until David returns from his trip.

Open House Buffet

Yesterday I learned that you can cruise through all the open houses in your neighborhood and get a free lunch while seeing how other people decorate their homes.

I had to shoot a couple of open homes in the same town and couldn't believe how many people came through and went straight to the kitchen to grab handfuls of cookies and fruit then quickly walk through the house, chewing, before running out the door, still chewing.

If I was shooting a room they wanted to see, they'd wander in without any realization that they might be in the way or holding up someone's job. Just get the cookies and look like you're interested - that's all that matters. GET THE COOKIES!