Another career, another life…
In a previous life, about a million light years ago, I was a journalist. A photojournalist. It’s something you should know, as I will probably name-drop a little in this blog. It’s one of the benefits (or drawbacks, depending on who the celeb is) of the job. You get to get up close and personal with those who make their living out of being in front of a camera. One of my personal favourites was Steve Irwin. Before he was really famous. But that’s another post for another day…
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For more than a decade, I worked for newspapers in New South Wales and Queensland and I loved my work. I was a rare breed (back then) and doubled as a photographer also. In fact my very first job in the media was as a news photographer. Not paparazzi. There is an absolute distinction between the two. I was a photojournalist with lots of enthusiasm and not so much training. Well not in the photography department anyway.
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To say I was spectacularly under-qualified for my first job was a serious understatement. I had a folio of black and white images thrown together from my photographic fiddling as a student (firstly of Architecture and then during my stint doing my Bachelor of Arts majoring in Journalism). I had fallen in love with my camera in a 5% photography subject during my first degree (which I completed just 18 months of). For a woman deathly afraid of enclosed spaces, I loved the magic of the darkroom.
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I loved being shut away from the world, in my little black world, peering at the sheets of paper swishing in their chemicals trays, as they slowly revealed images captured by my trusty little manual Nikon. While others engaged in serious debates about Frank Lloyd Wright and Daniel Burnham, I snuck off to the ‘cave’ to experiment and enjoy the silence.
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For more than a decade, I worked for newspapers in New South Wales and Queensland and I loved my work. I was a rare breed (back then) and doubled as a photographer also. In fact my very first job in the media was as a news photographer. Not paparazzi. There is an absolute distinction between the two. I was a photojournalist with lots of enthusiasm and not so much training. Well not in the photography department anyway.
…
To say I was spectacularly under-qualified for my first job was a serious understatement. I had a folio of black and white images thrown together from my photographic fiddling as a student (firstly of Architecture and then during my stint doing my Bachelor of Arts majoring in Journalism). I had fallen in love with my camera in a 5% photography subject during my first degree (which I completed just 18 months of). For a woman deathly afraid of enclosed spaces, I loved the magic of the darkroom.
…
I loved being shut away from the world, in my little black world, peering at the sheets of paper swishing in their chemicals trays, as they slowly revealed images captured by my trusty little manual Nikon. While others engaged in serious debates about Frank Lloyd Wright and Daniel Burnham, I snuck off to the ‘cave’ to experiment and enjoy the silence.
I discovered (in that darkroom) that I was not so much a leader, but an individual. Someone who thrived on creating and in seeing my own work being realized without a gaggle of others getting in my way. In other words, I could never, never in a million light years be an architect. It was to be an important revelation and one I took heed of.
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So I switched universities and direction (after the awful, nerve-wracking chore of telling my parents that I would not complete my course, which so many would have killed to get into. And in my family you didn’t give up.). And I studied for two more years (completing my final year externally) and then made my way into the “real world” to finally earn a proper crust.
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I was incredibly lucky to get that first newspaper job – with my silly, amateur, overexposed images in a sleek black folio tucked under my arm, I caught the bus to Sydney (some 15 hours ride) and went to my interview. I wore a cream Cue suit (my first ever) and tried keep my nervous perspiration to a quiet roar.
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The location of the paper was in a town of 15000 people eight hours drive west of Sydney – any self-respecting city dweller with big newspaper ambitions would have balked at the remoteness of the posting. But I was already about 1600km from home – I had never been to the town before and really had not much clue about it, but I was game for anything. The editor was a young woman, and she decided she was keen to have me in her small team. I soon understood that “game for anything” is a very necessary quality in any news photographer.
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I try not to think about what I was like in those first few months – hopelessly out of my depth but trying to bluff like crazy to cover my shortcomings.
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So I switched universities and direction (after the awful, nerve-wracking chore of telling my parents that I would not complete my course, which so many would have killed to get into. And in my family you didn’t give up.). And I studied for two more years (completing my final year externally) and then made my way into the “real world” to finally earn a proper crust.
…
I was incredibly lucky to get that first newspaper job – with my silly, amateur, overexposed images in a sleek black folio tucked under my arm, I caught the bus to Sydney (some 15 hours ride) and went to my interview. I wore a cream Cue suit (my first ever) and tried keep my nervous perspiration to a quiet roar.
…
The location of the paper was in a town of 15000 people eight hours drive west of Sydney – any self-respecting city dweller with big newspaper ambitions would have balked at the remoteness of the posting. But I was already about 1600km from home – I had never been to the town before and really had not much clue about it, but I was game for anything. The editor was a young woman, and she decided she was keen to have me in her small team. I soon understood that “game for anything” is a very necessary quality in any news photographer.
…
I try not to think about what I was like in those first few months – hopelessly out of my depth but trying to bluff like crazy to cover my shortcomings.
I remember my first shoot in hideous clarity – despite attempting to wipe it from my memory bank repeatedly. It makes me shudder.
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My task was to take photos of one of the local greengrocers with his produce around him. The senior photographer at the paper was the same age as me, whose father was the advertising manager, and who ended up, fittingly, as a London paparazzo. He passed this particular shoot off to me and watched intently as I packed the camera bag with the big heavy Nikon news camera and lenses he had designated to me. The equipment was a bit worn but still worth many hundreds of dollars. I was as nervous as hell.
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My task was to take photos of one of the local greengrocers with his produce around him. The senior photographer at the paper was the same age as me, whose father was the advertising manager, and who ended up, fittingly, as a London paparazzo. He passed this particular shoot off to me and watched intently as I packed the camera bag with the big heavy Nikon news camera and lenses he had designated to me. The equipment was a bit worn but still worth many hundreds of dollars. I was as nervous as hell.
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I cannot recall the story this photo was supposed to illustrate – it certainly wasn’t front-page news – and I tried to look professional as I ordered him into a corner of his display, to hold the fruit just so, and to keep his chin up a little. I also recall – in excruciating clarity – dropping the camera as I lifted it to take the shot. The strap got caught on a packing box, the camera ripped from my sweaty fingers as I lifted, and SMASH.
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I froze, got cold chills and think I went a really bright shade of magenta (and I have pretty olive skin so that’s quite a claim) and tried to pretend desperately that it hadn’t happened. I didn’t look at the camera, just took the photo and packed up, desperate to leave the scene of the crime.
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The greengrocer was a nice man and smiled comfortingly at me. He posed obligingly and helped me pack up my heavy camera case. I’m also sure he was on the phone the second I was gone: “she’s a bit of a bloody klutz this new photographer chick!”. Or something to that effect.
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Byron, the chief photographer, greeted me gleefully back at the office.
“Did you break the camera?” he asked with a malicious gleam in his eye. The bastard must’ve had a direct line to the grocer.
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“Not at all,” said I nonchalantly as I shut myself in the loo with the camera bag and checked for damage. My heart was pounding and my face burning. What in the name of all that was holy, was I doing here, pretending I could do this job?
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The lens was dented but the glass unbroken. Bloody hell. I wanted to climb back into my little blue Subaru wagon and drive the 17 hours home to Queensland again. Klutz.
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The greengrocer was a nice man and smiled comfortingly at me. He posed obligingly and helped me pack up my heavy camera case. I’m also sure he was on the phone the second I was gone: “she’s a bit of a bloody klutz this new photographer chick!”. Or something to that effect.
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Byron, the chief photographer, greeted me gleefully back at the office.
“Did you break the camera?” he asked with a malicious gleam in his eye. The bastard must’ve had a direct line to the grocer.
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“Not at all,” said I nonchalantly as I shut myself in the loo with the camera bag and checked for damage. My heart was pounding and my face burning. What in the name of all that was holy, was I doing here, pretending I could do this job?
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The lens was dented but the glass unbroken. Bloody hell. I wanted to climb back into my little blue Subaru wagon and drive the 17 hours home to Queensland again. Klutz.
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But I didn’t. I stayed. I stayed for three years and had the time of my life. I grew a thick hide, and learned like crazy. Byron continued to be a prize moron, and made life difficult on more than one occasion. (It would actually be great training for me in the newsrooms to follow). But he could also take great shots (when he could be bothered) and I sucked up any morsels of information that he carelessly dropped.
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And I got to rub shoulders with, and photograph, some amazing people as a result. Like the entire Wallaby rugby team (in the nicest possible way!), like musician extraordinaire James Morrison, the renown Aboriginal elder Burnam Burnam and like the late, great Steve Irwin (and his fabulous wife Terri). Like people you have never hear of, but who are as incredible and as amazing as anyone famous.
Other stories, for other posts.
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So yes, I have written before. But never like this. Never about ME. It’s hard.
And yes, I have taken photos before. But never about something I love so much.
So if you’re feeling brave, come ride with me… anything could happen.
13 Comments
Leigh
I just found you blog today, don’t ask me how. I think your life looks absolutely magical! I can match ya heart beat for heart beat when it comes to loving offspring (I’ve got 2 little girls 4 & 8) and the hubby (20 yrs). But I would trade my location for yours in a New York Minute! I’m a SAHM/grad student in NYC. This morning I find graffiti on the front of my apartment building, then I find your piece of heaven on the computer. You’re blog is amazing and your writing just draws me in! You’ve got a new fan!!
jeanie
Honestly, it wasn’t R-E-A-L-L-Y that long ago, was it? Only last century?
A Novel Woman
ah HA! I knew it. Your fab writing skills shine through, not to mention the awesome photography chops.
Oh, it’s going to be a great ride.
More please. Lots more.
Pam, from Montreal
debby
Count me in! You’re fascinating. For a klutz and all.
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
Leigh… I thrive on comments like yours. My ego loves a little encouragement. I have Jeanie to keep me in check! I’d love to visit NYC. It’s one of my dreams.
Jeanie – it was a GAZILLION years ago (yes, last century. OK, it was about ten-ish years ago.) Stop being so picky!
Pam (A Novel Woman) – you outed me! I WAS planning to tell y’all, but I don’t want people to have high expectations. Cause I can murder the English language like no-ones business, and post pics that would make “real photographers” cringe like whipped pups. I have so much to learn, but I’m willing to risk the ridicule. Feel free to edit me!!!
BB
Alison
Kewl post. My face had a nice little glow happening when you dropped that camera, too.
I love your writing and I love your photographs.
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
PS Thanks Deb. I think…
(slinks off to ponder this comment).
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
Alison – dropping that camera was one of the most un-kewl things I have ever done. And there have been many! Glad you shared the embarrassment of the moment with me. It helps.
Pencil Writer
Thanks for the picture in!
Tracey
Oh I was so involved reading that, I gasped out loud when you dropped the camera!!! No wonder you write and photograph so well.. you had the guts and determination to learn on the fly.
My eldest daughter is doing photography in high school and I so envy her. I think she might go places with it. I wish I had the chutzpah to take a fashion risk and learn that sort of stuff…
Do you think it’s something that’s easier to do when you’re young?
baby~amore'
I could tell you had more spit and polish than the rest of us.
I am in awe of your blog too – please share your photography tips.
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
More spit than polish, I’m afraid Baby A. Still the same Bush Babe. Still a klutz of the highest order…
🙂
BB
Jenni
I know the common advice is to write about what you know, but sometimes writing about things that are very personal and important to you can be harder. You do a beautiful job, though. Your blog has quickly become a favorite.