Life, Death & iPhone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My cell phone died. It coughed and sputtered. The iPhonic wheel of death spun on its face for 6 hours overnight as it hummed on my bed stand. My clients, contacts had not been backed up in a month, iCloud was a fog to me. What was my schedule for next week? I hadn’t been keeping up with inserting phone numbers into my Roladex on my desk, that took too much time. My iPhone was an appendage, an assistant, my organizer, my everything. Surely it was a fluke and it would recover by daylight. I would take it into the Apple store and develop a story as to why there were remnants of Diet Coke in its intestine, that it was not my Diet Coke, but that of my 6 year old daughter who begged to take it with us in the car as she had worked so hard on her recipe of soda and Splenda. The car was dark. The Diet Coke was in my cup holder. The Diet Coke was dark. My iPhone was thirsty.

I woke and reached for my iPhone, it was dead. I could almost feel its presence in the room beckoning from the light. I rose without the usual ritual of checking my email, Facebook, Twitter and various news apps. I had no idea if the world was about to collapse or if anyone liked last night’s status update. The only thing I had to focus on was waking my children, scouting for dog nuisance in the christened dawn, and making the perfect cup of coffee. I thought I would be more panicked that my lifeline had gone to the digital graveyard in the ethosphere. Yet I found myself secretly snickering, like a sewage collector who suddenly develops a fever and must call in sick. I felt liberated, and guilty for feeling liberated. The irony struck that the device which offered so much freedom, the ability work anywhere at anytime, had suddenly become a bit of a gilded cage.

I was a teenager who’s parents left town for the weekend. My newfound freedom brought an excuse to run errands without anyone ever knowing. No one could call and ask where I was. I was going off. My list of to-dos running an envelope-long danced on my console. I checked each off as though a medal waited for me at the customer service at PetCo. A 10am car wash loaned 30 minutes of wait time. I began to twitch. My hand involuntarily began to reach repetitively into my pocket, my purse, for my iPhone. I was officially jonesing, the crack addict of iPhone users. If I could just hold an iPhone, just swipe the face, just unlock something with my code, it would go away.  My brain churned in a frantic whirl of desperation for something to quell its angst. The earlier moments of bliss had been replaced with visions of using the cell of a passer-by just to update my status because a really good one was brewing.

Then I saw it. It laid there on a black iron stack staring at me. It was a newspaper. I reached for it, the man at the register stopped me. “Are you sure you want THAT newspaper? It’s from Sunday, it’s Wednesday, old news by now.” I reached for the paper, that big fat Times Sunday Edition with blazing headlines, the Arts section meekly sneaking through the fattened advertising inserts. “This is exactly what I was looking for”, I responded, plopping my new 3 pound app on the counter. It was old news, but it was my news.

I pulled a chair in to the sun peeking from behind the eave of the lube shop. Its rays bathing us, the newspaper sat on my thighs, warming me, as I began to leaf its pages. Life riding a bike, the familiar routine quickly returned to my fingers. This relic of script did not reflect in my eyes, it had no screen with smudges and no arrow to scroll with. The headlines were the same as on my iPhone, but somehow they translated differently. Instead of scrolling through articles at a sonic rate, I gravitated to the headlines, giving them each an opportunity to speak. Stories that would have been lost in a haze of sleepy eyes and clicks were now alive in my hands at a carwash under a magnificent rays in the aroma of escaping fuel. It was perfect. I learned about a 21 year old girl who had struggled with a rare Pediatric disorder that took her ability to all but breath. It followed her family embracing her as she fell to its grip as they removed her from the ventilator. She stayed alive longer than any doctor could have imagined. The family slept by her side, read to her, embraced her, painted her toes and brought in her favorite Dachshund to sleep at her feet. I cried. Tears fell like stones onto my new friend in my lap, a friend I had ignored for something sexier, faster, easier to put away. I would not have stopped to read this article had I seen it on my phone.

Next were the Obituaries. With PMS in high gear and stained cheeks I found this to be the appropriate transition. I learned about a man who died at the age of 62. It did not say much about his life or how he passed, but that he was loved. He married his sweetheart at the age of 24 and moved to California from Idaho. I found myself wanting to know more about him. I read every section of the paper that day, every article, and I cared about what I read.

Why did it take the severing of a digital lifeline for me to be reminded that reading a newspaper can affect your entire day? We know the art of the newspaper is being lost to technological advancements, we see it everywhere in the headlines, it’s a new day and we must change with the “times”. How ironic is it that the name of the newspaper is also its demise.

The man in the blue collared shirt and rag in his pocket whistled into the air announcing my car was ready. I stood, collecting and arranging my friend into an organized stack. Although my fingers were darker, my heart was lighter, I looked down at her texture and print and laid her on the chair, to wait for a life that will change for a moment, because she was there.

 

 

A New Year Confession

I have a confession to make. We did not send out a holiday card this year. Not even a New Year’s card. This, is your New Year’s card. It’s too bad too because it was a darned cool year. Joe jammed with Lacrosse and has now transferred to Valencia High and is advancing in acoustic guitar while growing into an incredible young man. Macky had the lead in her High School play “One Flew Over the Coo Coo’s Nest” and got accepted to The Cronkite School of Journalism at ASU for next Fall. Cassie May read every single Harry Potter book and raised over $1800 for veterans between her Lemonade & Cupcake stand and her Cocoa for Vets. Emma Jane, well, let’s just say her book of DilEmma-isms is now published. She continues to ignite our life endlessly with her spunk and uniqueness bringing spontaneity to every moment.
Our Tempered Steel family continues to grow with the wounded warrior speaker base expanding and the founders Luana and Scott making a difference with every move they make in bringing awareness to the beauty behind the scars of war. Mom is breaking ground continuously with aiding troops in need of reconstructive surgery with Iraq Star, the Iraq Star Chopper was auctioned at The Reagan Library on 9/11 bringing much awareness to the mission of Iraq Star.

Cassie & Grammy, Thanksgiving 2011

Big Love ended it’s incredible run. The kids watched as the houses were torn down and the crew said tearful good-byes, it was a fantastic run for a great show. Don is now busily back in the production world on new projects which so far have not required a car pool sticker….It’s because of that car pool sticker, on Don’s car, that is now gone, because his car is gone, that we did not get out a holiday card this year. Not even a Costco one-sheet. No pictures, no Home Goods recycled paper art cards with glittered pine trees in the snow. You see, that’s what I get for procrastinating, and something happened. Something bad happened. Something we didn’t account for which resulted in a Christmas without a greeting. But this something was a blessing in disguise. An angel hidden beneath a twisted spiral of thorns.
Macky was in a car accident. Another car turned left in front of her. Both cars were totaled. Both drivers walked away with injuries which will hopefully echo as afterthoughts in the years to come. It was that weekend we were going to take our Christmas picture. That was also the first time that the last thing on my mind was a photograph.
We received the phone call under Dumbo. The most ironic thing in the world is to receive such news at the happiest place on Earth. It was Mac’s cell number but a different voice asking to speak to “Macky’s Mom. The only thing worse than a call at 2am is the call from a stranger asking to speak to Macky’s Mom. My heart stopped. Emma looked up at me concerned as I couldn’t answer her pleas for caller ID. “Macky’s been in an accident.” A rush of adrenaline surged through my skin, my face, paralyzing me. Macky’s hysterical wail in the background gave me excruciating relief and terrorizing fear at the same time. She was alive. She was scared. She was screaming. She was Ok. She was here.
The emotional toll it’s taken has left her a quivering rag doll in any passenger seat, her finals had to be pushed to January after winter break, but overall she is rocking this thing that rocked her world. With ASU’s Cronkite School of Journalism waiting for her in the Fall, her future is just beginning, just as it was almost lost.

Macky in the Salvage Yard with the Prius

I put off doing a Holiday card because I assumed we would all be there that weekend in matching hues, arguing for position with familial formality. Why wouldn’t it happen? It’s happened every year for 17 years, the Holiday Card with the just the right greeting, the perfectly placed Swarovski crystal, the personal note to friends we missed. The card was expected, it was the norm. It got me thinking. Macky’s accident was wrapped in an unexpected blessing. We are a family constantly ejected into one way streets distracted by billboards, gravitating to shiny lights like butterflies to neon. Four children with different schedules, Don and I working constantly to provide, we had forgotten one basic element to preparing for the holiday season. We forgot to stop and touch up the chipping paint on the yield signs. We forgot that although we can’t control the actions of drivers turning left in front of us, we can control our speed, and the clarity of our windows.
Another blessing intervened on that particular day. We had a friend staying at our home. She is one of our Iraq Star soldiers named Leshonda, who has become a large part of our family.

Leshonda with Emma Jane

She was at the scene in minutes, went with Macky to the hospital, and secured a not so sought-after spot as a permanent member of our circus of chaos.
There may not have been a card this year, but for the first time the holiday panic did not include creating a card, it was about embracing the unexpected. We watched as cards flooded in from other families, stopping at each one and appreciating that we were given one more chance to still have a family photo next year, with all of our children, with matching hues and perfectly placed Swarovski crystals with just the right greeting in celebration of the greatest blessing of all, family.
Wishing you a year of your own angels hidden in the most unexpected of blessings.

DilEmma-isms is now an eBook!

“Mommy, why is the fish sleeping upside down?” Emma, the youngest of our four children, is the poster child for free spirited children everywhere. “Is it just skin that goes to Heaven? Cuz all that’s left afterwards is just bones…” Her antics quickly earned her the nickname DilEmma.

Every parent wishes they could write down the funny things their child says. In this case, DilEmma-isms began as a Facebook page for me to easily to document each humorous moment easily through my iPhone. This mobile diary is now in the tangible form of a book for others to share with their children and to reflect upon the ironies of life, through the eyes of DilEmma.

THE BFA Headshot Solution

THE remedy for the Theatrical Major Headshot Trauma…

This weekend I will once again return to Texas State University to photograph the graduating Seniors of their Musical Theater and BFA programs, providing the graduating students with professional headshots with which to begin their acting careers.
The benefit? Professional headshots at a reduced rate in the comfortable atmosphere of their own university.
Throughout the process, I also coach the students on how to create a successful photo session eperience in the future with other photographers in their new cities.

Each student receives four fully mastered digital files. The session includes 15-20 students and takes place in one day.

Please contact info@benskophotography.com to book a session at your university!

Guest Artist Feature:

A Night to Honor Wounded Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans

Twelve Steps to a Photography Business

So you’ve finally made the psychological plunge! You are going to start a photography business! Or at least you’d like to start thinking about it seriously before anyone can talk you out of it ;) There are a few basic things you need to know before you take the leap.
1. Name It
Don’t just name your business, put some thought into it or at least make it personal. I came up with the absolutely wild and brazen concept of “Bensko Photography”. I know, don’t fall out of your chairs. It’s pretty brave. Go to www.logomaker.com and create your own logo!
2. DBA It
A DBA is ‘Doing Business As’. It essentially tells the world you live in to watch out, you are no longer Joe Schmo, you are now officially the person in town with an alias who’s going to be shooting people.
Visit the Dept. of Registrar-Recorder Country Clerk’s Office to register your fictitious business name.
3. Print It
Within 30 days, you MUST publish a statement in the local newspaper announcing your DBA that will run for 4 weeks! This is essential!
4. Bank On It
Select your bank wisely. Watch for fees, and if they are “business friendly”! You may have a few questions as you are just starting out, so make sure you can connect with someone there personally who you can approach for advice along the way.
5. Build It
Your website is probably the most IMPORTANT step you will ever take in this journey as a photographer. DO NOT RUSH IT! Make sure the site is where you want it to be, that you only post the best images you have taken. If you are not sure about an image, if people haven’t genuinely reacted in awe, do not post it!!! Your website is the one chance people have to make a three second decision as to whether or not they are going to call you to even see if they want to hire you. Your site is the key to the door of possibilities. Websites can be pricey, ask around if anyone knows a graphics guru who would like to trade services! Have a vision of what you would like, but allow your guru to do their magic as well. Just as you are an artist, they are as well and it’s important to remember that creative minds may not always think alike at first. Try to have a clear a vision as possible, sit together and look at sites that you like. However, make sure your site does not look like other photographers’ sites! The key is to be unique.
6. Flash It
Flash is FUN! BUT, don’t just ask for a Flash site because of the fancy slideshow options. Although technology is quickly advancing, nowadays most everyone accesses sites on the run! Your site MUST be accessible via smart phones and smart tablets! Even if you are dead set on having a Flash site, then have an HTML option on it or you could be out a lot of business.
A great solution is one of the hottest items out there today, and one of the most commonly asked for in the business world: The Electronic Press Kit! It’s extremely reasonable, and a great option! You can view mine here.
7. Shout It
Get the word out that you are building the imagery for your site. Shoot your friends and neighbors for free and put your whole heart into it. You are giving them a gift, and they are giving you a gift in return as well. Treat these sessions as though they are paying you in gold, because they are!
8. Appreciate It
Referral incentives work! It’s a wonderful thing when someone refers a client to you, don’t be afraid to offer them a print discount or a percentage of sales from their referrals. It’s a tough world out there and appreciation goes a long way.
9. Donate It
Ok, you can stop giving every once in a while, but rarely pass on donating to silent auctions. It’s great exposure, it helps a cause, broadens your market visibility and connects you with a new client base!
10. Network It
If you haven’t started social networking, then get on the insane train NOW. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 pesos. This is a new era, new day and age. If you are on Facebook, create an album and title it “My Work”. Upload only the best of the best of your work to date. Anytime you take a picture that touches you, upload it to that folder. Share images on Twitter, Tumblr, there are so many sites nowadays that touch so many lives. Friend or follow your clients, put your social networking address or follow icons on your site, your blog, your email signature. There is no such thing as over-exposure. If Lady Gaga can get away with fire shooting from her chest, I think a few uploads aren’t going to bother anybody.
11. Blast It
Create a Constant Contact account. Send out a newsletter once a month on what you are up to, perhaps offering a discount, a special. Write about your favorite session that month and include some samples from the shoot. See if you have friends with small businesses that are just starting out or could use some exposure and offer to include their logo in your newsletter with a link to their site! Life is about connecting with friends, with clients, and the only way your business will be successful, is if your focus is consistent in regard to the quality of your relationships in life, and helping one another out.
This leads me to the most important aspect of creating your new venture.
12. Live It
Find a cause that genuinely touches you, that takes no effort to love and commit your heart to. Learn about the organization. Request usage of their logo and include them in your promotions. Donate 10% of proceeds of sales of prints to their organization, or have an annual shoot-out with funds going directly to that charity. This must be authentic. Sit and really think about what matters to you and research foundations online until you find one that “fits”. See if their director or founder is accessible, email them and inform them of your support and your programs which will include their organization.
My organizations are military related: www.iraqstar.org and www.temperedsteelinc.org
Building a business is not easy, but it can be extremely fulfilling. It gives you an opportunity to connect with your community, to engage with your friends, and to someday look back on something you built with the village it takes to create something truly meaningful.

The Zen of Event Photography


The ZEN of photography

The secret to being a respected event photographer has a lot to do with an ability that few of us think about when we book our first job; The ability to become one with the environment….. This is the “Zen of photography”.

It’s that feeling that you are so in sync with the world around you that you could sense a misquito about to burp in the other room. It sounds funny, but it’s true. A good photographer captures what’s happening around him. An awesome photographer becomes one with what’s around him, enters the middle realm of reality and grabs the shot from the inside out, essentially grabbing the soul of the moment and holding it for ransom.
Remember the last “great” photograph you took. The one that when you first saw it, it spoke to you. It told you that you alone owned that moment in time. Then, you thought it was kind of cool, so you showed it to a friend and for a moment there was silence, you sat wondering if it was really good or not. Then they said it, “That’s really good…..wow, you know that could be in a magazine. You should enter that in a contest or something….” For a moment, all was right in the world. The economy could crash again and worlds could collide, but for that moment nothing else existed, or mattered. For that moment, you realized you created something special all your own that no one else captured. In some ways, photography is a selfish, lonely existence. The irony is that we make a living providing memories for others people.
The art of photography comes in creating beautiful imagery, but does this come from shooting for the client or shooting for yourself? A respected photographer balances shooting for himself first, and then for the client. I know, this goes against all logic and everything you’ve ever heard about event photography. Of course you must shoot for the client, but don’t forget the reason they hired you: They like your work, they like you, and most of all they trust you. Yes, a successful photographer must be mentally unbalanced to the point that you become 2 people at the same time. One part of you is shooting what FEELS right to you, it’s that sweet spot, that moment when you hit the tennis racket and the ball just pops off through the air and crosses the net perfectly. The other side of you wants to cross-dress, I mean must cross over the aisle to the perpetual aisle and shoot from the head, not the hip. Being able to capture both what you desire and what the client expects, makes a good photographer. Doing both of these things at once, could very well lead to greatness.

My Father and The Porcelain God

Black and white photographs dangled on a string, handcuffed by clothespins over the toilet. This was our darkroom.
 I was 10. Dad loved photography, and the most logical place to conduct the transformation of images to paper was, of course, on a collapsible photo lab above the toilet in our bathroom. It was pretty ingenious actually…developing possibilities above the Porcelain God. The perfect day was a collision in photographic banter huddled in the echoed walls of tangerine formica and tile. I watched him worship imagery, dipping and drenching the 8 x 10 sheets of magic paper into solutions, witnessing images cross the middle realm to the harsh reality of our 1970’s-orange painted bathroom. Ma had painted the bathroom orange to match the box of Tide. Why it was orange still perplexes me. The box of Tide never entered the bathroom.
My father and I had one very important thing in common: the pursuit of the perfect photograph, and my father was the master hunter. He’d arm for the capture with Minolta in hand and a crackling brown leather bag, its buckle bursting with filters and lenses for any possible scenario. Rolls of film marinated in every ASA, color, black and white, slide film.

One of the scariest things I’ve ever heard him say was, “Real photographers shoot in slides. National Geographic only accepts slides.” Dad was a master at the technical aspect of photography. The actual science of the capture crouched in wait on my father’s tongue, anticipating the moment I might ask a question so he could leap loads of information into my psyche and implant its infinite knowledge within my frontal lobe. This game of proverbial darts never quite hit the bulls-eye. I spent my childhood fascinated by the act of taking pictures and developing images, but running from the attempt to actually understand the process. It somehow seemed if I knew what I was doing, the magic would dissolve into the abyss of that Porcelain God.
Someday I would understand his technical gibberish of aperture and shutter speed, bracketing and focal length…but not yet…I wasn’t ready. I was having too much fun…watching his negatives evolve into prints of Kodak couture. His dewdrops on the flower, the angelic flares in his sunsets, the nature wrangled by his lens.
There is no longer a darkroom. My bathroom is beige. The brown crackled bag sits in my closet, baring fossils of our hunt. I await that perfect day, when he and I sit together again, when the miles contract and the world forgives our temporary retreat into our divided realities. The days of Tide are long behind us, but the memories will linger, dangling gently in my mind, by clothespins.

Life in a Silver Frame

There is a photograph which reminds me of the fragility of life, the vulnerabilities we face as human beings.  It’s difficult to call it art, yet it’s an image which stirs emotion, alters my state of mind, and touches my soul.  It queries my children’s curiosity, a story told by it’s very existence.
For years, the wrangled wreckage perched in a silver  frame on my dressing table.  My children bewildered as to the morose Mona Lisa in my bathroom, an homage to everything my life is, and a daily reminder of what could have been.  
It was 1998 in Vermont, visiting my grandparent’s farm, on break from college. My friends and I had gone to a late movie and were supposed to have been home already. She stopped the car and mentioned there was something she wanted me to experience. I was sitting in the back seat but she asked me to change seats to sit in the front passenger’s side. I had never worn a seatbelt. As I settled into the seat, their buckles clicked. Somehow, I knew what was about to happen. A blanket of truth wrapped my body in premonition.  It was a  teenager’s fear, a rush of adrenaline from the primal fight or flight of innocence and denial.
It was 11pm. The rained had subsided. We were almost home. I convinced myself I could be wrong. Perhaps there was a secret lookout she was going to show me.
It was called Thrill Hill. The locals knew about it. Kids did it all the time. You speed over a dip in the road. The car flies. Your stomach drops. You laugh and scream. You go home.
The car accelerated: 25, 50, 75. I screamed. She did not slow. She said I’d understand in a minute, that it was “wicked”.  Just wait and see. Silhouettes of trees blurred into the black light of a full moon, the pastures buzzed with anticipation.  The road curved, our wheels grasping for traction. She over-corrected.  Like rag-dolls we swung from bank to field, launching into the air shattering the echoes of crickets serenading the spectacle of unbridled youth.  We flew 92′ parallel to the ground, tumbled through a stone wall barrier dividing farmers’ properties. The car flipped over and over. Slowly my mind captured each and every arc of the windshield like a Nickelodeon movie theater. The crunching of metal, the shattering of glass. No screaming now.
It’s funny how when you are that close to death the screaming stops. No laughing either. It wasn’t fun.  We had broken the barrier of innocence and collided with the fractured face of mortality.
The car settled in a cow field of slime and mud. the silence deafened. The gas, the intoxicating aroma of fuel and manure wafted through the air.  Movies of exploding cars played over and over in my mind. I turned to my driver, she was breathing. Our passenger moaned, her voice from outside the vehicle, her body still buckled. She was thrown through the back windshield, shards of glass clawed through her back. Her pelvis was broken. My driver spoke in broken speech, enough to know she was alert.   I had to get out, had to get help. My body was numb. The window was crushed. The door was jammed.
No one knows how I exited the car. The roof was  six inches from ceiling to window sil. I had somehow pulled myself through the window to the mud below. The farmer’s wife said they didn’t think the wail was human. It was a wild dog. It was me. Their curiosity summoned  flashing lights and sirens. The mud caked my cheek. Paramedics queried as to who the president was, the year. My mind wandered as to why such silly questions at a time like this.
We all had quite the hospital stay, I annoyed my geriatric bedmate with a filtering of frenetic friends and family. The driver broke her back and jaw and is now recovered. We haven’t spoken since . Our passenger now treks mountains across the globe. Every muscle and ligament in my body was torn, but not one broken bone. The scars on my legs, the shredded ankle, took time to fade.    
A month in a wheelchair brought challenges on campus, a depression of telling a story over and over. The sudden desire to live fully, dancing in clubs with my cast still on my foot, somehow attempting to defeat what was left of the silhouette of death still tattooed in my mind. Had I not been wearing my seatbelt I would be a quadriplegic or a photographer in the sky, documenting the latest reconstruction of pearly gates.
My grandparents went to see the car in the junkyard. The midnight blue 1986 Jeep Eagle Premier LX sat alone with my makeup bag strewn throughout it’s innards. No one should have survived it, they said. They stood in awe at its destruction.
My Grandpa took that picture. I put it away, safely snuggled in a box with my retainer and silver dollars tendered from the Tooth Fairy. Then one day, I decided, it needed a frame.
The images in my mind would never be enough to explain to my children what happened that night. But that photograph was going create for those I loved, an immediate understanding of the most traumatizing event in my life. I had not gone to war or lost a child. I had however witnessed the inhalation of my youth.
“What’s this?” She asked, her tiny fingers holding a picture of  the wrangled metal. ” That was Mommy’s car accident sweetheart.” Her large violet eyes scoped my face for more information.  ”Why do you keep it?” she asked. “Because it reminds me that I almost never had you. It reminds me of how lucky I am to be a mommy and hold you and kiss you. It’s not a pretty picture, but it’s an important picture. ”
Sometimes the meaning to life is right in front of us,  with tiny fingerprints, in silver frames.

Becoming The Photographer…

“What made you become a photographer?” A questioned posed as more a curiosity than actually wanting to hear about the emotional gymnastics one must have experienced to make a living shooting people. Photography is the step-child of professions, the stripper on the pole of life. It can be the most beautiful thing in the world, but if the dancer isn’t fit and experienced, it’s simply painful to watch.
It all started with good intention. Never in my wildest narcoleptic dreams could I have imagined actually making a living at it (not pole-dancing, that’s for an entirely different blog). I just liked clicking that button, winding that film, smelling those chemicals (digital really ruined that for me), and watching something evolve from nothing. I didn’t ask for much. Until one day someone said to me, you could make a living doing this. I think it was an ex.
Our friends and family love us, they want us to succeed, and they are the first to tell a little white lie to make us feel good about our passion. This may be hard to hear, it’s difficult to even type, because it’s a lesson I had to learn in the beginning and wish I’d had someone to tell me otherwise. The truth is, we all do certain types of photography well in the beginning, but not everything we do is brilliant. The first thing I’d do is get away from your family and get new friends….just kidding.

How do I get there...


When I first started shooting professionally, my friends had given me a little too much positive feedback that, in a way, worked against me. The problem was, I was only showing my work to friends, and not to seasoned professionals from whom I could learn. I was not very good. Yes I had instinct, but technically I was worlds away from being as good as my friends said I was. I was blind to the reality of the work I had in front of me. It wasn’t until one of my dearest friends, who happened to work in the entertainment industry, sat me down after a headshot shoot of hundreds of images and she said, “these are acceptable, one of them is great, but where is the brilliance?” This was extremely difficult to hear. I believe a glass of wine followed as I wallowed in what I felt was criticism. In reality, it was a wake-up call. If I wanted to not only be successful, but respected as well, I needed to step it up. Every single image I posted had to be pretty darned close to perfection in all of its potential or I shouldn’t put it up at all. So, there began my quest for artistic vision. What was going to make me stand out from the rest…..?

Are you different?


In order to have a photography business that constantly moves forward, accumulates income, and enhances your quality of life, you need to absolutely accept that photography is not simply a hobby any longer. It must be the primary focus above anything else in your life except for family. All day, every day, every waking moment should find you curious about the world in which you live and how you can capture those moments in a unique way. You need to not only think, but live outside the box of normalcy. When others are going to lunch, you are developing your website, your blog, watching Photoshop tutorials, creating your own actions, learning Lightroom, playing in Bridge, mastering images, shooting friends for free, marketing complimentary services to elementary schools, shooting your children’s teachers’ families as holiday gifts for all they do. When you have done these things a hundred times, do them again, like a mantra. Your life is about creating imagery, figuring out the market you wish to target, discovering what you are truly gifted at whether it’s studio photography, portrait, weddings, editorial. This, by the way can take years to sort out. The only way to truly know where your gift lies, is to do any and every job that comes along whether it seems interesting or not. Say yes to all and work your tail off to do it right. Keep your pricing reasonable, and as soon as you have that “Ahah” moment, of where you know you really are that good, that’s when you focus on a field, put on your seatbelt, and get ready for a wild ride. They say it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become a star at anything. With that in mind, don’t look at this as a sprint. You are in the marathon of your creative psyche and this is a journey which will hopefully last a lifetime (or until you are ready to retire.) Pace yourself, but understand that no-matter how much you love photography, there is somebody around the corner who loves it more, who is fresher and more willing to pay their dues.
The greatest gift you can give yourself, is to find a mentor. Locate a successful photographer through a friend in your area. Most people can offer a personal referral to someone they know who has made ago of their photography business. If they seem successful, there are various reasons why, but one of the most common threads is they’ve learned the art of the edit, the market, and customer service. They’ve learned the practice of sorting through images after a shoot and listening to their gut reaction as to whether an image is good or not, what stirred them upon viewing it. They’ve learned through the reactions of other professionals what is truly a brilliant image, or solid photograph, and what is a smart image to post as it will provide revenue (as these can be two completely different things).
The bottom line is, whether or not you can build a career as a photographer is solely up to you and your actions. If you keep moving forward, if people continue to be attracted to your work, if you open yourself to the mentorship of those who have gone before, and have the willingness to embrace your flaws and give them the ultimate extreme makeover, then yes, you can become the person on the street who is “the photographer”.
To be quite frank, it wasn’t until not too long ago, when I looked down at my beaten, toughened, sore, achy knuckles…when I realized the inner cradle of my right thumb is now chronically black from the camera body, my skin callused like a dancer’s foot, and my hands showing the labors of my love, when I realized that yes, now, I can finally and wholeheartedly say to myself, “I am a photographer”.