Job #3, Part II

So, when we left off, I was at a bar in the Mission, taking some crappy pictures of the band Bulk. I couldn’t figure out how to maneuver the lighting, and even though I was dressed as an artsy photographer, I felt like a fraud.

As the band began its set, I started taking shots, knowing they were all too dark. I watched Megan, the girl who was taking photos ‘for the experience’, from across the room. She too seemed to be in costume: she was wearing the hipster uniform plaid shirt, but her jeans and demeanor gave away that she was anything but. Megan, you could tell, is a nice girl. A girl possibly from the Midwest, a girl who doesn’t need to wear makeup because her features are naturally beautiful and inoffensive. Megan is a girl who takes pictures of concerts as a hobby, but doesn’t need to get paid.  Megan is a girl who brings her fiance to the bar with her, and doesn’t notice as he watches her adoringly.  And most of all, Megan uses the camera’s flash.

I’m not like Megan, but I’m grateful she’s there.  She comes over to me with a worried expression on her face.

“Are you getting good shots? This is really hard! There’s no light! The singer said it’s OK if we have to use the flash. It’s too dark otherwise! Do you think it’s OK?”

I agree that the lighting is too dim, and confide in her that I don’t know how to shoot this without some flash either.  I give her my blessing as a ‘professional’ to use the flash, and by extension, give permission to myself. And because she doesn’t feel bad about it, I don’t either. Megan doesn’t know it, but she’s just saved my ass.

The first set finishes, and I figure I deserve a beer. I’m thirsty, and even though I’m not a big beer drinker, that’s what you order at a bar. With tip, it costs me 8 bucks. I add that to the cost of train fair and realize that this gig has already set me back 15 dollars. After about 4 hours of work, (not counting travel time) I’ll be netting 35 bucks. I make a note to myself to ask for water next time.

Just as I’m nursing my 8 dollar Hoegaarden, two promo girls in short white nighties and heels teeter towards me.  They’re wearing Red Stripe banners across their chests, and have their hair done to look like pageant girls.

“Um, sorry to interrupt you. But there a 3 dollar Red Stripes at the bar!”

“Ah, now you tell me,” I smile, pointing to my full pint.  They smile and walk away, onto a group of men, who they certainly don’t apologize to for interrupting. They start flirting, taking pictures with groups of guys, presumably for Red Stripes’ website. The men seemed charmed, flattered even, but any woman can plainly see these girls are working. I look over at them, and wonder how much they’re being paid an hour. I even consider asking them how they got the job, but they’re busy.

Watching them from my booth with my designer beer and leather jacket, I feel a familiar artistic snobbery wash over me. How would I be a promo girl, how could I act so fake? And then I remember, there’s no difference between us, really. Just a different gig, and different outfits.  They laugh at a guys’ joke and touch his arm, getting him to buy another beer.  I sulk in the corner with my camera, pretending to be an artist taking pictures.  All that stands between us is a costume change. And a job.

And maybe that’s what being a professional is really about. Pretending until you believe you ARE the job.

As the second set started, I started to pretend in earnest. I let go of my amateur insecurities, and told myself the flash was a completely necessary tool of my craft. Concert goers stepped out of my way, deferring to the professional photographer. And  just like that, the good pictures started coming.