Another 2 inches and Vivi will be ready to dominate the Midway the way she wants to.
Tomorrow I will be shooting the Indy 500 again. Which means some dumb man is going to make some snide remark about little ‘ol me and my big black camera.
When I was in Vegas a few weeks ago working with Floyd Mayweather’s photographer I was holding his camera as we were waiting for an elevator — an older man looked down at the camera, then looked at me and said “That’s an awfully big lens” in a condescending tone. Something about girls and big camera equipment makes some men terribly uncomfortable. When I shot the Indy 500 last time I was in the elevator, weighed down with two enormous cameras and I was on a high — I had just been in the pits at the Indy 500 capturing some of the most exciting photos I had ever taken.
The old guy across from me with his stupid camera vest and borrowed AP equipment said “That’s some serious camera equipment there baby, you know how to handle it?”
I could have killed him.
I’ve been edged out by male photographers before, ones who believe I’m just some mom there with a fancy camera with lots of buttons my husband bought to keep me happy. In fact, the way some people feel about lawyers is the way I feel towards most AP photographers. Thankfully I have met some very kind ones — but it’s always those few loudmouthed stinkers that foul it up for everyone else.
I’m already going into tomorrow with a prickly towards the sexist attitude some men have towards female photographers, which is why I’m getting it out now.
I have to remind myself that my camera and I have a relationship most people will never have with an inanimate object. It is an extension of me, a detachable part of my body that captures what my heart feels, my brains sees and what my mouth can’t manage to say. Just because photography is an intensely emotional process for me, doesn’t mean the all of the technical knowledge and understanding isn’t there as well.
To all the women out there with big black camera bodies and an intimate knowledge of f/stops and metering — I salute you. May we stick together in the literal and figurative pits of being talented and creative ladies in a traditionally male dominated field.
Hey there, lost my mind today when my lunch was interrupted several times by someone who claimed they didn’t know how to wash strawberries and then again by someone who kept making demands of said strawberries. I feel I should also mention I was hiding in the kitchen to eat my lunch so the circling vultures wouldn’t move in on what I had made myself rendering me lunchless.
I’m in this stage of life where I don’t get to just sit down and eat, I get to serve everyone else, cut big things into small bites for some people and make sure everyone has a drink, enough sauce, the right utensil and if something gets spilled I’m usually the one closest to the towels. It’s okay, it really is. I can still remember the last time my dad ever cut my French toast for me, I wonder if he remembers it too? If he remembers that transition to me not needing him for stuff like that anymore.
This is exactly the type of thing you can’t focus on when you’re a parent. Like when’s the last time I took a shower without someone asking me about my udders? When’s the last time I used the restroom without someone banging at the door for something? When’s the last time I talked to another grown up I’m not related to? When’s the last time I had an uninterrupted meal or conversation? While we’re at it, when’s the last time I shaved my legs? WAIT! Where did that chin hair come from?
It’s nice to raise these little people to independence, but sometimes the road to independence is paved with screaming frustration.
This weekend I’m headed to New York City with my camera. I miss having my camera in my hand, I miss that excitement of having a memory card full of possibilities and going to bed at 2 am because I just can’t quite quit Lightroom just yet.
My hands have been full, literally and figuratively, being a mom.
The mom part of me is worn out, the wife part of me is grateful for a husband who supports what I love to do. The creative part of me is desperate to get out and make something beautiful and tangible that doesn’t hide under the table to poop or laugh when I take off my pants.
What is your thing? What is your escape? What brings you back to center and recharges your batteries for everything you have to face in life?
This is mine.
(Side note, this photo is from 2008, before Vivi came out of my hips sideways and permanently altered my bone structure. Ah, memories.)