I was standing on the stage letting my eyes wander over the grinding, pulsating crowd looking for that ONE PICTURE that would really embody the look and feel of the club. Finally, there she is: hair swinging in all directions, drink in one hand, the other one flying free, and her ass rhythmically rubbing the guy’s pelvis behind her. This was the shot I wanted. Now, I don’t take this shot to embarrass her. The opposite actually. I’m a little jealous of this girl. What the hell was I doing when it was my turn to be the drunken chick at the bar dancing with the hot guy? (I think I was studying and we can all see how well that turned out.) So, I bend down, aim the camera, click and hope for the best. If I get this shot, I can go. It’s been a long night. I wouldn’t mind going.
Although I waited until 11:30 to go out, apparently nightlife is starting even later, since the club didn’t really get busy until 1. And this is the third club I’ve visited. It just hasn’t been a night full of to-die-for pics. So, I get my shot of the hot drunken couple having (virtual) public sex and pack up my camera. As I walk offstage I grab the promoter and give him a hug and he whispers in my ear “Thanks, Beautiful” and I smile.
I knew a guy once that HATED “club talk”. That’s what he called it. You know, the schmoozy conversation you have with no names. “Hey, sexy…” “Smile, Handsome…” “You too, Sweetie…” He despised it, and if I called him anything other than his name, I got a lecture.
In my job, there are a lot of people who float in and out of your awareness. Being a photographer, names get lost, but faces stick. It’s gotten to the point with some people that I am so familiar with them it would be insulting to admit I don’t actually know their names but as long as I keep recognizing their faces, I can fake it pretty well. Just recently, amid the Twelfth Night no-coat fiasco, a man approached and said he knew me. Sure enough, one look at his face and I knew him too. I had no idea WHERE I knew him from but his face rang some bells. He finally pinpointed that I had met him during a job interview and as my mind raced through every job interview in the past three years I was at a loss to place him. This is when you shut up. Whatever you do, don’t admit you can’t place this person because people REALLY don’t like it. Nevermind the fact that I talk to literally hundreds of people a month. Nevermind the fact that my job involves the art of the “Ten Second Relationship”. (as I’ve come to call it) Nevermind the fact that you don’t know what my actual name is or what my major was… Nevermind the fact that our entire connection rests on how many times I have taken your picture, an event that lasts probably two minutes at the most… Admitting you don’t know someone pisses them off. They’re hurt. I get it. I would be too.
So, that’s where the names come in. The pet names. Beautiful. Sexy. Handsome. Honey. Sweetie. It allows familiarity without admitting you aren’t actually familiar with them. I suppose that was why that guy hated it so much…the fake friendliness. A valid point. But I have to say when I am hugged by a hot guy in a club and he whispers “Thanks, Beautiful” in my ear, I don’t mind. I don’t swoon either. I don’t go home and Facebook-stalk him and wonder if he meant it. I don’t get butterflies in my stomach and dream about our wedding. I give it about as much weight as the nod I get from my postman when he passes me in the hallway.
On the other hand, when I read that some members of the InsideStL meetup thought I was rude on the comment boards…well, I have to admit they were right. I was rude. To that one guy that was just NOT COOPERATING. And to the people who were cooperating, I had a great time and I hope they did too. No one was taking photos to embarrass anyone. I didn’t ambush them unwarranted. But when the basic minimum for a photo slideshow is thirty photos and there are ten people at the meetup, I’m faced with a few challenges. And not wanting to let down the people that hired me is HIGH on my list. If they want photos of their forum board meetup, I’ll deliver, assuming the people cooperate. So, if you give me shit, I’ll give shit right back atcha. Why? Because of our assumed familiarity. It’s like a sibling relationship; sometimes you love them and sometimes you have to play the “I’m not touching you” game.
So, I guess that’s just the way it is…nightlife photography is like a sibling relationship. A person you are supposed to know, but don’t really; a person you are supposed to love, but sometimes you don’t; a person you are supposed to be nice to, but sometimes you can’t. Imagine all that psychology in the space of a shutter click and brief conversation…two minutes in and out. But it’s the truth.