Saturday was an adventure. I took the day off work so I could go photograph some living history events at the Cherry Mansion that my dad’s pals were going to be a part of. I was told to be there at 11 a.m., when photographers would be allowed inside the Cherry Mansion to take pictures with the re-enactors. I hauled ass and got there thirty minutes early, met up with my dad and brother and nephews, and began surveying the surroundings to try and get a good idea of what I’d shoot and where.

I was introduced to several people whose names I don’t remember. Everyone was nice for the most part, and I milled about, snapping pictures here and there of my dad and the group of people I was there to photograph. Then a lady who was a coordinator of sorts apparently mistook me for her personal photographer, and began art directing me and telling me who to photograph, and where, and from what angle. I went from confused to annoyed in a hurry. I’m not sure if she thought she was going to have access to the photos she was telling me to take or what. I was told that her photographer had flaked out, so suddenly it made sense why she would be encouraging me so boldly to take certain shots. I obliged mostly because I am non-confrontational like that, and for a while it was easy to take the shots I wanted to take while placating her with some shots she clearly wanted me to take. But eventually it got to the point where I couldn’t even break away to get a cup of lemonade without her calling after me, wondering where I was and could I come over here and take this shot and this shot and get over there and take it from that angle, too. (By then I had been there for three or four hours out in the hot sun with no food or water, and yes, I know that the crazy re-enactors were doing the same while wearing wool coats, but they are crazy like that and I am not.) I eventually had to just walk away and go about my business. I was being bogarted for big grip-n-grin shots while my dad and his fellas were standing by, and the whole reason I was there was to shoot his people. It was dumb. Plus I had an assignment over in Shiloh for The CA to get to.

Oh, one really funny thing happened. I was shooting a group photo of the Dixie Belles — you know, the ladies who dress up in hoop skirts — and some other photographer sauntered onto the scene with his camera and tripod. First thing he did was wander over to me and ask me, “What are you using?” I thought he meant a lens so I just held mine up because, you know, there it was. But he was talking about my settings, and leaned in and looked at my screen — WHILE I WAS WORKING — and read the shutter speed and aperture aloud. I was actually shooting on program mode (toggling between it and aperture mode because that is often my jank-ass way of getting my bearings in new settings) but he mistook it for auto (probably because I self-deprecatingly said something about shooting on auto, nyuk nyuk). And then when I was changing angles for another shot, he said, “Do you know how to use your manual mode?”

>.<

My patience was already growing then by that point. So I spat, "I'M SORRY, WHO ARE YOU?!" At which point he told me his name and then promptly shut the fuck up. I will not tell you his name or link to his portfolio because I am trying to make a renewed push to be a nice person these days. But let me get one dig in and say that, based on his portfolio, he had no business whatsoever readying himself to offer "helpful" suggestions to me, regardless of what settings I was shooting on. So, photographers of the world, when I want your help and condescending input, I will certainly let you know. Until then, put a sock in it and keep shooting your mediocre, soulless photographs. And I will do the same.

Ahem.

After a trip across the river to watch my dad and nephews shoot a cannon (photos to come eventually, after I edit all 600 of them), I grabbed a soda and some trail mix and headed to Shiloh with my sister in tow. After three inadvertent trips down the same one-way scenic route, we finally found the living history campgrounds, which were largely deserted, save for the fellas pictured above, and some other folks. I took some shots, scribbled down names and info, flicked a tick off of Krissie's hand, had a brief freakout thinking ticks were in my hair, and headed back to the car. My head was starting to hurt and my skin was starting to sizzle. I had to call it a day. That night it felt like my skull was trying to leap out of my skin. Chalk it up to being nannied for hours and hours in the sun without a break by people who were not my boss. I've really got to get over this mousey non-confrontational personality stuff so that I can better help people understand when they best be backing off.

[Project 365]