Democratic National Convention
The second day.
Sometimes I question exactly what I’m doing and why. I’m aiming to make pictures that have no reason to exist—shooting them as if they were printed on paper, spread across two pages of a glossy magazine.
Or to paraphrase Indiana Jones… "They belong in a museum."
A bold statement, to be sure, but that’s always kind of been one of my mindsets—somewhere between "No guts, no glory" and "Swing for the fences."
I’m not into small-ball, base hits, as it were. Swing away, Merrill.
But, uhh, why?
Why swing? Why show up?
Making the donuts doesn’t come without a certain amount of pain or commitment. Calves are tight. Back is sore. Sleep is limited. Patience is tested.
And yet, regardless of the circumstances, I’ve never had a bad day on this job. I never worked a single day in my life while holding a camera in my hand.
True words that most of my colleagues would happily echo.
There’s something about watching history unfold from a front-row seat. Few things, outside of family and friends, can beat it.
People are kind, mostly. It’s okay to be polite, even in politics. Even today.
I don’t play favorites, mostly. Elizabeth Dole might be a possible exception—a shrewd politician who never, to my knowledge, failed to be kind. Of course, I called her ma’am, never Liddy.
Everybody else is fair game, especially when they’re inside a gigantic TV studio powered by an astronomical budget with the singular goal of snagging my vote. I’m a journalist. So when you go Madison Avenue, I go off-camera flash and drag the shutter. The longer I’m in the bubble, the longer my shutter speeds. It’s just one of my rules.
I love these folks, the ones that end up in my frames, but it’s a tough love. Republican, Democrat, Green, or even whatever Dennis Kucinich is… love that guy—you’re all fair game. You want to sway my viewer. You’re paying big money to do so, but I like to think those bucks stop with me.
Props, extras, huddled masses crammed into the cheap seats, nestled under the luxury suites filled with our corporate sponsors.
I’m both sarcastic and have an extremely inflated ego, so I actually believe that I can make a difference. Tap the brakes. Keep hope alive. Be the court jester, a fool for Christ.
The hardest job in the world is the photojournalist who finds themselves working for a political campaign. Now, that would be real work. Those poor schmucks.
The only true believers in the house. Seriously. I once had this guy, waiting for the press bus to load somewhere in Iowa, realize he was out of batteries. I told him to run across the street to Walmart and grab some. Said I’d make sure the bus didn’t leave without him. He looked at me like I just suggested he club a baby seal. Then I remembered that our candidate of the day was John Edwards, and Edwards made a point of bashing Walmart in his stump speech.
So I gave him some batteries. The poor schmuck… or is that a schlemiel/schlimazel situation?
We’ll wait for the judge’s review on that.
Speaking of Edwards… haven’t seen him roaming around the convention floor. Whatever happened to him? Elder statesman that he is.
I gotta think there’s a Walton or two slurping down G&Ts up there in those suites.