Lola the Lion

In the beginning of the quarter, I took Lola to school with me, not just because I missed her terribly, but because I had a portrait shot I had to take of her in the studio. I fed her chicken nuggets, played her favorite tunes, and unlike Kat, did not have to beg and bribe her to wear the appropriate clothing. She is a natural ham, loves the camera, and has regular conversations with women in various places on the latest fashions, a foreign concept to Kat and I.
She flips through clothing racks like a pro, and I just stare in amazement, thinking “THIS IS MY CHILD?”
It is a crazy thought.
They truly do come through you, not from you.
And, thank God. I can’t wait for her to be old enough to dress me.
She loved my school, the dogs she fed too many treats chased her through the art adorned hallways, jumping up and making her laugh, students stopping to admire her red hair. I wonder if I am warping them sometimes, while other times I wish I had been them.
We had Bible Studies growing up.
Kat and Lola help host bondage photo shoots.
My mom dressed up in heels on Sundays, her eyes all pretty and her lips red while she hummed to old tunes and children hyms, excited for Sunday mornings.
I believe I wore a red wig, all leather, and a tool belt to leave for a Halloween party, Lola admiring my shiny six inch heels.
Kat, one of logic and as Baby Bro says, is ready to move out into her own apartment at 8, looked me up and down, uncertain I looked like a mechanic at all.
It was Kat who tugged at my shirt while I was adjusting lights, and when I bent down to her, she whispered loudly, “Mom! That boy is wearing a wedding dress!”
I couldn’t help but gut laugh. Sometimes I can’t believe I am a real mother, especially after PTA, where I am bored to tears but go because that is what good mothers do, or at least what my mother did, I suppose. She always looked interested, raising her hand, and I doubt she were having to lock her phone in the trunk in order to not text boys during the power point presentations. I regress.
My mother was a beautiful earth mother, the kind of woman who comes alive with pregnancy and homeschool, education, school events, PTA, and carpool. She did everything a mother should do as far as our meals, education, discipline, and yet she had one teeny issue.
I was her daughter.
Nothing she could have done or did do would have changed my mind on why or how I would experience life, as a little baby she tells the story of me taking my baby finger to the light socket, staring at her, back at the socket, back to her.
“NOOOO, Katie.” She said it in her stern Mother Bear voice.
And I would wait for the opportune moment, and so my finger in the light socket moments as a baby would continue on into adulthood.
The poor woman barely survived me.
And so, I have no idea what Kat and Lola will think, but it only seems fair a rite of passage will come, to roll their eyes in complete humiliation at my quirky ways. My greatest hope is to not shape or mold any philosophy for them to adopt as their own. I am quite certain they are already the gift to the world, just as they are, and no matter the hymns or the cages, they will be completely free to see their crazy artistic mother through any lens they choose.
And so, after the lights, the posing, the packing up, shutting down and chasing her down the school, the portrait of Lola above was beautiful to me, her mommy, but my favorite was actually the one never used, as they always are. This is her in rare form, afraid, for the child is breathtakingly fearless.
It is me, a mini me, when no one is watching, reaching my finger for the light socket, the shock on her face makes me laugh every time.
I love you, Lola.
You are a piece of work, my shiny star, and my biggest fear all wrapped up in red hair, charm, and enchanting laughter.
I am holding my breath and crossing my fingers you are nothing like me, and more like your sister, but something tells me I am about to raise me, but to the third degree.
Don’t blame me for being afraid.
After what I have done to my mother, I know I should breathe deep, and be very very afraid.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Let the fingers in the socket begin………..

“Thelma and Louise, but in the Buff”

What happens when you and the girl you mutually do not like get paired up for studio lighting?

One of you is bound to get naked.

When I heard the announcement that we were partners, I groaned, my stomach tight and uneasy. I had many judgments, ruthlessly believed I was nothing like her, had talked about her behind her back which she called me out on. I was pissed I had not said it to her face to begin with, putting that lesson in my back pocket which I hope to never relive again, mad I had not said the words to her face from the very beginning.

The worse thing about gossip is that the thing you wanted to say translates to nothing you said therefore what you really wanted to say never gets heard.

Gossip sucks.

I didn’t blame her for not liking me either, content to leave it there, and so of course, an intense portrait and lighting class where concepts and meetings, hours of styling and modeling for each other takes course, our photographs depending on our partner’s collaboration.

I was screwed.

I thought about how I was going to handle this partnership, my photography and work a fierce passion for me, and I knew it was my work or my ego that was going to suffer, or perhaps both, and so, I decided I had to package and sell the worst product ever.

I had to figure out how to make this girl tolerate me.

We met at a Starbucks, both noticeably on guard while I pitched her the idea of taking all the judgments we had of the other and making fun of them through our photographs. I thought she would be defensive and disagreeable, but she laughed, surprised me by jumping right in, our love to photograph suddenly started wearing down our defenses, and after many hours, I found myself surprisingly adoring this girl I had thought uptight, crazy defensive, and incapable of being actually real.

Second huge lesson to put in pocket is to never judge, not just because you may be their actual model for a shoot critiqued by everyone in class, but because most likely you will find you are always without a doubt, 100% wrong. And so, I fell in love with her actually, not in the bi-hopeful way, but the really amazing way, an unfolding of trust that happens when a person decides you are worthy of it.

She was nothing like I had imagined, fearless and fun in a feisty determined way, not to mention a far better photographer, an actual working one, with nice equipment and years of experience already on her belt.

I had not thought her an artist until she began pushing me as hard and harder when I pushed her, a broad slap to my confidence, asking me to require myself of exactly what I had once accused her of not being.

She wanted me to get real.

As a lover of fashion photography, she wanted me out of my converse sneeks and jeans, my comfort zone peeling away with a sick vomit feeling replacing it. I hate being photographed.

No, seriously. I really really hate it.

And so, she argued, she hated it too, and if I were making her be a trophy wife, raw and revealing in low light and maybe smoking to make fun of her uptight attitude I had once imagined, she wanted me to be sexy.

She picked out my wardrobe, dove face first into the shot gun wedding bride I had imagined in my mind, her passion for my photos just as important to her as her own. We talked and laughed a lot, argued even, and I suddenly couldn’t remember what in the hell I ever disliked to begin with, remembering only when she opened her mouth in class, like the time she discussed all the books our teacher had written in class.

I wanted to smack her and here I was drinking in her passionate energy, and at three in the morning in her basement, had a tight dress, a make up artist, and before I knew it, was cold and naked in a coat waiting for her to decide what to dress me in next, our idea as a logical IT guy would be a certain irony.
I know when she gets an idea in her head, the way her head tilts, her eyes sparkle, the fast way she moves and directs, crazy to get the idea out of her. Now I also know the next time her eyes sparkle to run like hell.

“Don’t move,” she said. I was confused, thinking I was watching her grab her camera to actually shoot me, right at that moment, which I knew couldn’t be it. I looked over my shoulder.

“I said Don’t MOVE,” she barked, her eyes darted right through me.

“FUCK YOU,” I at least think that is what I said, but I will just wing it for the story since I do get a little grouchy at 4 in the morning, cold and tired, in heels with a fan on me. It had not yet hit me.

And then it hit me.

“YOU want me to look like this, for IT GUY? ARE YOU NUTS?”
She told me to look up at the wall and back at her in three.

“FUCK YOU.” I know I said it then, but actually laughing this time, because she was dead serious.

“Just shut up and do what I say, cause that is hot, and that is what I want.”
I give her props for not giving me time to bail, cry, or even think, and I realized she had just pulled off the impossible. I was modeling nude in a coat for an audience.

How did she get me to do that?

I realized I needed to shut my mouth more and watch what I think I can’t learn from. It also helped the basement studio has no mirrors, the inability to not see myself was vital, and so fuck it, I thought.
And so Thelma and Louise were born, her being Thelma she demanded, because of the obvious brown hair.

We worked tirelessly, and I learned more about photography in those early hours of listening to her direct me than any snapshot I called art. Anyone who can get me in front of a camera much less take off my clothes is someone I have a lot to learn from.
Well, that was my attitude until the day of class, the adrenaline and moment were over and I was now seeing the projector I had forgotten was as big as the coming back of Christ, my heart pounding, my head suddenly feeling slightly dizzy at the realization of what I might see.
I think I thought it was going to be the worst moment of my life, but it actually was interesting to hear myself critiqued in her photography by people I respect, the person in the photographs seemed distant and foreign, an actual vision of a painting or piece of art in front of me.
I didn’t really have a lot of thoughts about it.
We had key and low light, three different backgrounds, great concepts, and had learned a lot about each other, the best part of the assignment.
No, by walking away with each other, I say we nailed it.
I hate it that I can’t show off my work, but she is nothing like me, Thank God, and I would like for that not to change. Not everyone can be a perfect failure, an imperfect duality of having the highs no one can touch, the lows no one dares to imagine, the life everyone wants to visit, but not stay.
There is only one Miss Obvious.
I doubt I even need to point that out, which is an irony, of course, coming straight from the woman who owns the name.

Junk in the Trunk

Auntie Sage once said something to me that she has no idea how it has carried me. She is not a fluffy person, nor does she throw compliments away which is why when you receive one, it lands with a bulk of weight tied to it.

Clyde and Divorcee are both like that, my own compliments are far more like Lola.

I once heard her make a woman gasp when she said she had lovely eye lashes.
I think I congratulate every one in sight I see who has a pretty scarf or a tired look, the thought that I should keep my sparkly thoughts to myself come after I am stuck in a two hour conversation with a stranger, a fact that is either painful or wonderful. It is the best and worst of me.

Anyway, Auntie Sage said she could see clearly in front of me a day I was photographing and writing, living and being, and no one on earth would believe where I had come from, the life lessons that I have overcome.

I would love to believe that is true, and so here I am, not eating Chick fil A to save on gas, opting for crackers out of the vending machine, my stomach eating itself, my heart grateful to have made it the week with two bucks to spare.

I can not complain for I am sitting in my dream, no longer looking at it, but touching it, living it, seeing it form around me, enormous bold bright miraculous shapes of love healing and strengthening me.

I sit in the parking lot of this school and weep sometimes, not sure how I will pay for a color checker passport or light meter or if I will have the money to get contacts, but I know the anxiety will not kill me, or so I hope.

If it does, I went out in flames, so burn me to a crisp, put me in little jars to spread around like party favors, go find a great live band, and let’s have a huge party.
Until then, I will hold on to my dream, to Auntie’s words, to the day I will walk onto a shoot, equipment my own and paid for, art directors that respect and love me, my children waiting at our own house that Divorcee is waiting to drop them off for me.

I will have fluffy pillows, hard wood floors, windows that sun beams through during the morning. I will not even remember the days of being on the side of 285, exhausted, weeping, broken, texting strangers to get me to class.

I will pick out my favorite pair of boots out of many to choose, make art and meet people, laugh a lot, and when someone asks me about the story of life upon meeting, I will smile, say I am blessed, that with God and love, all things are possible.

And I will remember today, as I cry on my bed, my glasses being switched around with my last pair of contacts, my hair streaked whitish orange from a CVS hair dye, the heartbreak I feel over missing my children to go close down a restaurant, the weight of it all I will remember.

It will break me open, humble me, and my soul will shout in just living that anything is possible, that as deep as one can feel pain, one can also feel joy. I choose joy.
I love Junkyards, always have, even as a little girl, I would come home with things people had thrown away, crafting projects and tree houses, believing you can make anything beautiful if you see it differently.

I have been thrown away myself, tossed with mighty force as well as happily owned, captured and treasured for all the right and wrong reasons.

Despite it all, I have never been anything else.
Junk lets other people’s ideas of them believe they are worthy.
Art is already worthy and that is why it stands apart from all the other shitty pieces of creation.
It laces up its shoes, chooses joy when people are pissed the chips are soggy, believes in faith because miracles have paves its way, and doesn’t way to be discovered.
It is already found.

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The Creative Circus, a School for Photography

In all my years of schooling, all the years of rushing to turn in college papers, to solve basic Algebra problems, discuss Philosophy and sit through countless boring lectures, it took till this week at this school to solve the basic riddle of the Universe.
All of our genius forefathers did not know shit if they could not make perfect white lines appear on glass edges in photographs. You can have the high end equipment, have taken great photos for years traveling all over the world for years, but the real genius can take an incredible photograph of a spoon.

That shit is not easy.

I think I am prouder of surviving this week than I am over 3 1/2 years of college, maybe because I don’t remember them, or maybe because I saw a grown married man cry by a teacher who can prove Photoshop is incorrect in its percentages of what a Raw image file can contain, that JPEG is for pussies, and I shake now when burning dvds, a trauma now I may never recover seeing as my Macbook can not burn a flippin dvd, for God’s sake.

I have managed to create a new disorder.

DBF. DVD BURNING FAILURE is a disorder I now recognize by blood rushing to my head, rooms starting to spin in slow motion, people’s mouths opening and closing while I feel a deep hand around my throat choking, blood pounding to strange beats any time I hear the sound of any cd or dvd being ejected, even away from school.

I think I may have to start listening to mix tapes from the 80s until I recover.

Yes, besides the disorder, the fact I haven’t slept in days and have complete memory loss have been worth the shitty photos I have taken, the zillion lessons they have brought me.
I also have learned that showing up unannounced to do work alone will put you in the company of hot art directors and copywriters, and so, on top of the shitty photographs, I at least was invited to drink off the pain.

I saw a guy dressed with a scarf and jacket, a rare thing in an art school, gazing up at the sky. He looked like he was memorizing data, mouthing words, his face breaking into confusion, his other hand oddly holding a pen, his body in between these moments would crumple, his head in between his arms.

It was a pattern, and yes, I saw it clearly in five minutes.

“What’s up?’ I asked over the rim of my DVD failing Mac, wondering if he were gay, which when you meet a hot man with a pen in his hand and a lovely scarf, women know to guard their hearts immediately.

“I am obsessed with words.”
Snap. That is the come on line of all time for a girl like me, and so here I was, talking to a copywriter, which I had been wanting to get in their heads, always wondering if my personal ridiculous tales could translate into the advertising world.

I had thought the answer to that would be “NO WAY IN HELL.”
He said he had an ad campaign, that he had to convince with 3 statements how to convince people to START smoking, and so he also had a blog as well, but his was about ridiculous pointless dorky thoughts.
I find late night break rooms to be my favorite place, people hurdled around discussing book bags for children from the village assignment, the ones that will free the child in the tribe to do more homework.

The people all have different backgrounds and ethnicity, even there dogs, yes, dogs are allowed, as long as they look like they just dropped acid. Creatives are the best. And so, here I brain storm with a man asking me about his kid in the jungle, if he could possibly use netting, while he helped me find Barbie sized adult beverages.

My concept of taking Barbie and making her bad ass, turning the good girl image around has gone a little far with the help of art directors, walking by and laughing, turning around to tell me to get needles, coke, rolled up dollar bills, smeared make up.

“Oh, and DEFINITELY get teeny tobasco bottles from Hobby Lobby,” a guy said, barely stopping but rolling past me as I smashed glass to look like barbie had fallen from a chandelier while partying.

Nothing hesitates these people when you need Barbie porn ideas, which is why I belong there. The men of course had great ideas, like to put the video camera in, to tie her hands behind her back in the bath tub scene, since she was obviously into dominatrix, her tiny little pink slippers elegantly next to Kat’s barbie toys I stole.
And so it has been, one adventure after another, laughter in between meltdowns, teachers that inspire or terrify, and the basic promise to myself to just do what is next in line, that I will have an emotional break down if I think about next week.

And so, I shall go finish my homework, my blog missed dearly for its grounding emotional quality it brings, so let the heart pounding begin, which when you hear what I do for homework, it is freakin hilarious.

So far, the assignments for shutter speed and aperture have had me decorating cars and grocery carts, having people spin them or slowly tap them, while a guitar lighter I found that makes sound and lights up has been the silent weapon to help me understand aperture and night settings. I have laughed watching people shoot pumpkins, offer up hand made potato guns, and I have turned my girls into lamps, covering them in lights, asking them to put on ski uniforms to be shot in the tub, for the irony, I said with irritation, Kat not getting the concept.

But, all of this is bullshit, you guys, until I take the perfect spoon, and so, I guess that is when I will be able to break the rules. You have to know them to break them, the only inspiration to do that tedious frustrating lighting to begin with, proving to myself I finally have the right to do what I want fearlessly, instead of happy accidents occurring from time to time.

Until that day, I shall make Barbie porn, dump naked people and shoes into big tanks of water to understand the perfect way to shoot something frozen in action, a creative answer that fuels me like gasoline because this is what I love, and nothing says that like Creatives, up all night writing curse words with sparklers and glow sticks, hoping to capture them perfectly on camera.

A spoon genius.