It's no secret to those who read my blog - all four of you - that I'm well-versed in the craft (debatable) of photographing at nightclubs. I've shot tens, possibly hundreds of nights out, photographed at various parties, social functions and sophisticated soirees, frequented by newly-legal social butterflies; more mature folks; bearded indie kids in "ironic" flannelettes - and of course, fabulous homosexuals.
I've written before about people in clubs in my piece The Nine People You'll Meet At Venues, which covered the hilarious walking stereotypes I've seen parading around social functions, that despite years of changing cultural trends and the slow demise of various celebrities still hold true to this very day. What I neglected to cover in full detail however, in that piece rife with caricatures and offensive generalisations, are the ways in which those individuals affect me - the photographer. Because I have feelings too.
I'm going to take great pleasure in what I'm about to say:
I hate you. All of you, I hate you. I really and truly do. In fact, if I weren't currently working for a whimsical nightlife wonderland which permitted me the creative freedom to ignore your various shenanigans and focus on the acts, the venue and the atmosphere at hand, I'd probably still be stuck with you. And it would be awful.
I would have no choice but to succumb to your every whim. I'd be at your beck and call, unable to brush you off with a wave of my hand nor crush your gargantuan ego with the exhale of my cigarette. There are reasons why I hate you, my friends, acquaintances, bleary-eyed drunken fools - and I'm going to let you know. So let's delve into the five reasons why I hate you, and maybe some of you god damn white-girl-wasted miscreants will consider changing your behaviour. For my sanity, and the sanity of my people. Because us photographers cop a lot of shit.
This is not an exhaustive list, nor do these words and opinions represent anyone but myself.
Five reasons the photographer hates you.
1. The fucking awkward lean.
Women. Beautiful, gorgeous women. I see you sitting in the corner of the smokers room, or shuffling with your girlfriends in the middle of the dance floor - purses firmly wedged between your feet lest some gross bro-dude try and nab your wallet, or worse the little baggie of cocaine you bought from your promoter friend who swears it's legit but is really just crushed-up nurofen mixed in with a little bit of sugar from their mothers' kitchen cabinet - and I know that you know I'm there. Every week without fail, one of you will turn around and usher in your friends for a whisper, the desire for a photograph seeping from your pores like Paris Hiltons' latest shoddy excuse for perfume. You'll glance up at me, your eyes will flicker down momentarily to the camera around my neck, and you'll rush over with your gal-pals in tow - then ask me for a photo. I will oblige you, because it's what I'm being paid to do.
You'll all line up for a photograph, pick up your bags - because god knows everyone wants to catch your fake Prada on Facebook - and then all will be lost when the inevitable happens. Hips will lock and backs will arch. It's the goddamn awkward lean.
I don't know what absolute monster made this particular pose a necessity for girls in photographs, but if I ever meet them I'd like to personally extend them a thank you for making it possible to weed out the decent people from the intellectually challenged. In fact, it's arguable that the more a girl leans over into the ribs of the friend next to her, the more likely she is to enjoy acts like Avicii and partying at outer suburban nightclubs. What are you supposed to be? What does it represent? Is it Strong Woman? Because it looks more like Frontal Lobotomy, and after putting up with it thirty times in one night I'm not too far off jamming a blade through my own front lobe.
This is the pose that differentiates the cream of the crop from the Stereosonic chick in denim booty shorts. This is you crossing the bridge from Delta Goodrem to Courtney Stodden, or worse the entire female cast of Jersey Shore. It's even more painful when they throw in a bit of duck face for good measure - nobody wants to see the four dollar lip smacker you slathered all over that outrageous pout. And I know, I know you've seen pictures of photographic models pulling awkward lean-esque bodily contortions in fabulous streetwear - but the fact of the matter is, your bones and features are just not angular enough to pull it off. There are other ways to unleash the diva within. I suggest buying some real cocaine and making friends with homosexuals.
You're better than this. You were meant for more than this. Stop it. Even if your parents don't believe in you; I do.
2. Photobombing and other stupid shit.
A photobomb can be funny when executed at the right moment. There are pages upon pages on the internet dedicated to some flat-out genius executions of the act. I myself have engaged in a number of photobombs and understand the absolute undeniable hilariousness of jumping in the background of a snap someone is taking and ruining an otherwise nice group shot, by pulling a face that makes you appear reminiscent of a demon from the dark and ugly depths. By all means, continue to hop in the back and pull ridiculous expressions when I'm bored out of my mind taking group shots of smiling teenagers. It keeps my job interesting, and it makes my night easier having to deal with hundreds of braindead patrons that all seem to want to spill a drink on me.
However, like flirting and oral sex; there are ways to do it and there are ways to not do it. Do: Jump in the background of a bunch of girls awkwardly leaning and terrorise their photograph. That's hilarious, and it's going straight online. Don't: Jump in the foreground of a shot I'm taking of the venue, or the headlining act, or an otherwise influential figure getting a photo as a promotional tool to prove they were there that night (because our venue is the best venue and all the cool people come here). How would you like it if someone jumped casually in the background of your wedding video? Or if someone massacred a clip of you giving birth by making stick figures with surgical tools? Or if your mother walked in halfway through your live-streamed masturbation session to tens of strangers on the internet? It's moments like those where other extraneous variables just aren't necessary - and frankly, you're fucking up my shot. Stop that.
And when you're done fucking up what were supposed to be some atmospheric wonders for the eye to behold; don't stumble over all bleary-eyed and giggly expecting to see the photographs. And especially don't ask me to take your picture. I am very good with Photoshop, and you do not want to know what I'll do with that photo of your face. Better start thinking of a gay porn name, because you've just been promoted to internet sensation.
A short list of other intolerable behaviours: Gang signs made with hands. Thug life crew shots involving several guys with their shirts pulled up over their faces. "I'm so fucked up look how fucked up I am" poses. Flipping off the camera while it's pointed at the crowd. Molesting your (ugly) partner. Exposing your genitals for the camera (see: I am very good with Photoshop).
You might feel like a jokester and a hero at the time, but be warned. Those photos aren't going anywhere but my hard drive - and I've got a lot of time on my hands. I will 'shop you taking a dick in your ass.
3. Your requests border on harassment.
If I'm trying to get from one room to another, it's probably because a very important act is playing that I need to photograph, or because I've ingested far too much sambuca and need to throw up. Sometimes, though, the room is incredibly packed, and the journey from one end to the other is an arduous mission all its own, which results in a lot of weaving and making myself very small in order to navigate the crowds, which whilst holding three grand worth of equipment can be absurdly difficult to manage without accidentally dislocating an arm with a blow from my camera lens. When I am finally in place to photograph the main headliner, or in the queue to regurgitate my innards, it feels like all is well. But this dire time of need - and the urge to vomit hard liquor waits for no man - seems to always be when the lot of you camera-happy wasted wenches wants to run over for a photograph.
I have no problem photographing people. Genuinely, I do not. Oftentimes, if someone is particularly jaw-dropping, I will accost that person for a photo all on my lonesome, because we need you in our album. However, when I'm standing there, visibly focused in pursuit of an excellent photograph of the headlining act, the creme-de-la-creme of the music industry, is it really necessary for you to rap repeatedly on my backside an infinite number of times because you're desperate for a snap of you kissing your friend on the cheek? Stage lights change - as a song heats up, things become more dazzling and vibrant - and I might only have mere seconds to get the shots I need before everything goes dark and foggy, just like all my hopes and dreams. I ask you - can you not wait five, ten minutes, before I get a photo of you and your out-of-state friend who's never been to this club before but swears it's the best place on Earth ormaybethat'sjusttheMDMAtalking?
I realise how much you appreciate your nights out. I do. You've had a hard week. Perhaps you work at Coles stacking boxes, or you're an up-and-coming corporate executive lashing backsides all day. I'm here for you. I'm here to make you feel nice, to make you feel warm and fuzzy and welcome. But here's the clincher - I'm staff too. This is my job, my passion, and anyone who has ever seen me at work will know that the sight of me in the depths of a creative outburst whilst photographing the high and mighty lords of electronic music, is not too dissimilar from witnessing the visible effects of ecstasy.
All I ask of you, is that when I'm visibly engaged in photographing an act, that you don't shriek in my ear or punch me in the shoulder or throw me a death stare like I've just called you morbidly obese because I didn't respond within the fraction of a second that you wanted me to. I don't come into your work and sit on your desk whilst masturbating to photos of my own face - so just be patient. We will get there. You will get a photo of your bois and gurls having a drink at the bar, and it will be a special bonding time. For now, though, just leave me the fuck alone so I can do my job.
4. You're just too cool for this.
There will always be a subset of unique individuals who think that they're just too great to ever be photographed by someone as feeble and insignificant as the in-house photographer. These guys only ever want to be snapped by friends on disposable cameras, or alternatively by The Cobra Snake, because the only reason they're even out in the first place is to project their blatantly misguided sense of superiority outwards for the world to see. I personally blame their parents: instead of helping them achieve realistic goals and develop their skills, they've instead drowned their kids in affection, showered them in fantastical praise - and landed up producing some of the biggest and most insufferable narcissistic monsters I've ever had the displeasure of encountering. They're just too cool for this, and even so much as approaching them with a camera in hand is met with a response as if you'd shat on the ground in front of them.
It's a disappointment, really. These guys generally know how to dress, and it'd be a shame not to have them in the album. I mean, Givenchy is still Givenchy even if Daddy payed for it. Plus, you'd think they'd be more inclined to pose for a photograph if they knew their face would be plastered all over the internet. But they don't. Social climbers young and old have made names for themselves by popping up on Facebook pages the world over, always lurking in the confines of a photo album displaying the attendees of a special event or social function, the next big thing du jour - so why not you? What makes you so special? Or is it that I'm simply not special enough? It's always the latter, and you're always sure to let me know: The in-house photographer is worthless. I mean, I don't even have a blog.
Well guess what, bitch. I've been around this town, and I've been pissed on and degraded more times than I can count by prissy little shitstains such as yourselves, who think running a fashion blog makes them the next Rachel Zoe. The money I could have spent on Alexander Wang I instead invested in camera gear, and that should be neither here nor there - but to someone like you, it's simply an affront that I don't invest my time in doing up my wardrobe over my professional inventory. I'm going to give you the serve your mother never did, so here it comes:
Nobody cares. It's unfortunate, but it's true. So stop the bullshit; smile for the camera. You look pretty damn good, so own it. But before you take this as an opportunity to go from too cool for the camera to the centre of every stage; cease to hurl your bitchy narcissism unto me. Thou shouldst know I give less of a fuck than a coked-up Charlie Sheen. I will indulge your fantasy of glamour and your fever dreams of winding up in Vogue, but I will not indulge your arrogant side-eye when you realise I'm the in-house photographer. You paid to get in just like everybody else, so unless you're willing to flash those boots you spent almost two thousand dollars on, cut the bullshit, refrain from spitting on my face, and keep fingering through that September issue in lieu of acting like you're in it. You've got some life lessons to learn.
But really: if I tell you I'm a street style blogger, will you let me take your picture?
5. You think you're tough as shit.
Occasionally at the venues I frequent there will be an influx of males who look as though they've stumbled in from a cheap strip joint after drunk-hollering at the ladies and throwing five dollar bills thinking they're "making it rain". I can't dictate who enters the joint - that's the doorgirls' job - and suffice it to say I am at the mercy of these characters from the moment they catch a glimpse of me, looking straight out of an ad for G Star Raw, or the figment of my hypermasculine nightmares. G Star Raw is not so much a clothing label as it is a state of mind - if not that, then Mossimo or the rough side of General Pants - because you can always spot a shopper of that sort and kind by their attitude. You can also tell they probably use the word "shoppo" unironically, and no doubt took up a trade because it accommodated their tan and fitness regime.
You hulk over to me, dribbling spilt tequila on your printed muscle tees purchased from brands like G Star Raw which haven't been culturally relevant since Guy Sebastian won Australian Idol, and expect - no, demand - a photo, using your brutish masculinity as a way to coerce me into bending to your will. The Boys will gather up before me and strike some sort of bro-pose - generally the reverse-and-to-the-side peace sign, or alternatively the straight-and-casual stance with the blank facial expression like you've just been told 'the condom's burst' - or HEAVEN FUCKING FORBID you flex your muscles. And yes, that has happened. More than once.
If the photos are unsatisfactory, you make out like it's my fault, and almost threaten me with your physicality - like I am somehow responsible, like I gave birth to you whilst smoking meth. Like I'm now on a hit list, or will soon be the victim of a drive-by bottling. But here's the thing: it's not me, buddy, and it's not my camera. All I did was point it and press a button. That was my role to play in this scenario. It's you. It's you who looks like a foot. It's you who resembles what I could have been if I'd decided community football, anabolic steroids and date rape drugs were for me.
You're not proving anything by intimidating the photographer into taking a shitty photo. You're not making me want to run from you and hide whilst simultaneously wishing I had your "aesthetics". Your bodily progression is admirable to me simply because most days I cannot be bothered walking to buy smokes, let alone lift a pair of measured weights. Your fashion sense is shit. You are shit. And I hate you. But I also want you to be my friend because this section of the article will piss a lot of people off and if there was ever a person you should engage a gang war for, it's definitely me.
Now back to the gym with you.
---
But really, the harsh reality is that this is a job like any other, one which demands at least a decent level of respect. It's easy to mistake it as one big booze-filled fuck-around - and oftentimes it is; just ask my liver - but there's a lot more to it than just pointing and clicking. It's a craft in and of itself, which involves methodologies and creativity and talent and skilfulness, all fully available to be pursued by anyone who feels like doling out five thousand dollars and a small chunk of their soul in the process. I encourage anyone who genuinely believes it's a laugh and a half to try it for themselves - deal with the sweltering crowds, tolerate the self-sustaining stereotypes and attempt to fill a quota whilst engaged with wasted wenches and hassling patrons.
Photographers don't get the same respect as a doorgirl, or a bartender, or a security guard. Oftentimes all we have to protect ourselves with is a staff lanyard hanging from our necks - and even that goes wilfully ignored when a camera comes into the equation. When you've had a few brews and suddenly your inhibitions go out the window, replaced with the desire to fulfil liquor-fuelled egotism, who can blame you for getting a little pushy with the photographer? Everyone wants a snap on a night out, so they can have something to remember their night by when the morning creeps up and the hangover kicks in.
Us photographers hate you for so many more reasons than we can comfortably express without fearing the loss of our jobs, and these are just a few of them. So please. For all of the snappers that have come and gone before, and all of the youths no doubt plunging themselves into the depths of the nightlife to pursue a questionable career shooting babes and big acts - consider these. Consider your friends, the photographers. Because Photographers Are People Too.
I need to go and edit some photos from the weekend now, because my job doesn't end in the three to five hours I spent shooting on a Saturday night. Hopefully I won't need to 'shop a dick in a mouth.
"Fucking *patrons*." - Ancient venue staff proverb.
