Editor’s Note: In honor of Joe’s latest KelbyOne course, I wanted to share this post from 2011 in which he shares his wits working for National Geographic!
Crossing the Yellow Border
I’ve been shooting for “the yellow magazine” since 1987, and that land vastitude the yellow verge is indeed a wonderful, and strange, place. It contains and defines the unshortened realm of shooting experiences—impossible odds, magnificent occurrences, unprecedented access, nearly unbelievable bad fortune, outright danger, the exhilaration of the nonflexible won chrome or file captured, and the devastation of bad days, or plane weeks in the field.
That place, “in the field,” can be the urbane and sophisticated streets of Paris, or someplace literally so remote as to have never felt the footprint of man. It can be the ultra-sacrosanct tombs and structures of societies time has all but forgotten, or the blinking, humming computers that power our most modern technologies. The magazine’s official mission statement is “to increase and longish geographic knowledge.” “Geography,” for the editors there, often encompasses both physical and cultural geography. People and their places. People in relationship to the planet. The planet itself, in all of its’ magnificence, and wreckage. The earth, sea and sky, and all the organisms those elements nurture, and occasionally, punish.
In short, everything. Trust me, I know this first hand. I was once given a story to do tabbed “The Universe.” Yikes. (To my editor, I was like, “Okay, how long do I have to shoot this?”)
I was once an established “New York” shooter, with covers of Sports Illustrated, LIFE, Time, Newsweek, New York, etc., by the time I came to the sustentation of the yellow verge gang. Strategizing to get an assignment, I turned lanugo a go everywhere credential to the Seoul Olympiad for Sports Illustrated to honor a transferral to a week long freebie speaking tour tabbed The Flying Short Course, sponsored by the NPPA. Sounds unbelievably stupid, right? A freelancer turning lanugo a month of day rates to alimony an obligation to do a series of self-ruling lectures.
On the squatter of it, yes. But the method to my madness involved stuff on the same touring sense as Tom Kennedy, then DOP of Geographic. I had the opp right then and there to show my portfolio to Tom, five days in a row. I gulped, said no to SI, didn’t’ go to Seoul, and instead went off to lecture. At the end of that week of touring and talking, Tom looked at me and said, “You should come lanugo and start shooting for us.” That was 1987. Still shooting for them. Finished my last work this past summer. Scrutinizingly 25 years, and lots of yellow boxes, and pixels, later, I’m still out there, trying to increase and diffuse.
That longevity was not a given, to be sure. It never is in the world of freelancing, and I did my weightier in my first few efforts for NG to ensure my career with them would be truly short lived. I made big time screw up without big time screw up.
It was a variegated type of shooting, you know? I was used to the New York method. That kind of played out like this: Get a phone undeniability from an editor at a weekly publication in Manhattan. Say yes. Never, overly be worldly-wise to reach that editor on the phone again. Make all the arrangements, Go shoot the job. A week was a long time. Six pages was a big story. Get in, get out. Process film. Unhook it in a incoherent rush. Not hear anything. Undeniability three weeks later. Finally get the editor on the phone. “Oh, hi. Yeah, Joe! It is Joe, right? That story that you shot? Oh, oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, uh, it was good, we liked it. Thanks. Gotta go to a meeting.”
Have phone ring back, scrutinizingly immediately. It’s a undeniability from that very same editor you were just talking with. That editor who now all of a sudden remembers you, and realizes you are standing there, somewhere, with unbearable time to make a phone undeniability and this qualifies you as a warm soul with a camera, and potential availability to solve a problem the managing editor just threw on his sedentary like a big, steaming turd. “Hi, yeah, uh, by the way, are you rented in the next two hours?”
“Good, uh, Joe. Say, you think you could get an teammate and your lights to Capetown, South Africa in the next 12-18 hours? We’re crashing a imbricate on Mandela.”
“Ted, does Mr. Mandela know he’s stuff shot for a cover?”
“Uh, no. But we icon you’ll work that out on the ground.”
Geographic did not work like that, and still doesn’t. Geographic is considered, not breakneck. Geographic ponders, as you would expect they would, doing stories not for tomorrow’s paper but for a pub stage that is sometimes two years out. Watching a story develop at NG is kind of like watching one of those slow, shuffling herds of elephants moseying through the savannah, clouds of pebbles everywhere, that are routinely portrayed on the Nat Geo TV channel. In contrast, shooting for New York based weeklies, at least when I started, was kind of like stuff a squirrel on speed.
The first thing I was prescribed to do for National Geographic was a “fix” on a story on Washington State. I was given three weeks to shoot this. Three weeks to shoot a fix? Holy sh!t. What was broke?
Whatever it was, I was told I tapped it plane more. I was crushed. First time out of the gate, and I flopped. I, of course, was increasingly upset well-nigh it than they were. I thought it was over surpassing it began, but then they tabbed me back. They had a package of stories they were working, on immigration, and would I be interested in shooting the historical port of entry, Ellis Island? Small story, by their lights. Fourteen pages. Gave me a month to shoot it. Yikes.
It was a home grown story, sitting out there in the harbor. I began to get up every day at 3am and trek my way to this frigid, largely x-rated island. No people. Just me, the rising light, and the ruins of what was once one of the most popping places on earth.
Of course, I knew why they had tabbed me back. The main towers of the island, the Unconfined Hall where all the immigrants were processed, had to be shot. At the time, it was stuff renovated, and was a powerless, under construction shell. So, to shoot it, I had to light it.
It was the biggest lighting job I overly tried. Well-nigh 65 power packs, and well-nigh 100 wink heads. Couple hundred thousand watt seconds, all going off at once, powered by a huge generator truck, which I got onto the island by dishing $1000 mazuma under the table to the construction site super. That was flipside reason to rent me. I knew how to work in New York.
It was December in the middle of the harbor. Power packs were freezing, I was freezing, and my beleaguered hairdo was damn near mutiny. It took four days, virtually without sleep. I’d shoot sunrise, and then have to process the film, and make adjustments. By the time the adjustments were done, it was time for sunset. So it went for scrutinizingly a week, just to get one frame, which ultimately ran a half page. For this effort in the field, Nat Geo paid me $250 per day.
That was it. You see, I wasn’t really a Geographic shooter yet. I was in test phase, you could say. They would pay you minimally, a kind of entry level wage, during your first efforts when then. Kind of like throwing a very small unorthodoxy into a snarling pit of freelance photogs, and stepping when and seeing who comes up with it, which I’m sure was an entertaining process to watch. The Geographic illustrations editors didn’t much want to work with a newbie, either. The budgets on these jobs made them cautionary items indeed, and while you were in the field, you basically had your editor’s job security in your when pocket. You fail, and they would take heat when at the ranch. Hence, many were hesitant to work with a rookie. They wanted Stanfield, Richardson, or Johns. All tried and true veterans, who knew how to unhook their style of coverage. Understandable.
I found out downstream that Ellis Island was well received. During the job, my editor was pretty inert. He would take my calls only occasionally, and rarely returned them. I didn’t go to DC for a big showing, like I had been told about. I just shipped in my Kodachrome, and waited for judgment. Tomfool by me. No variegated than working in New York!
Then, Kennedy tabbed me in. There was flipside story in trouble. The shooter had missed by a wide mark, plane without weeks in the field. The story was London Docklands, moreover a large construction site, this one on the River Thames.
Tom looked at me. He said, “We’ve once washed-up this story and failed. Many editors here finger there is no story there, but the managing editor feels strongly well-nigh it, which makes it precarious for you. If you fail, you’ll never work here again. But, I want you to take this story.”
How could I say no to such a cheerfully described opportunity? I toddled off to London for 17 weeks, at $250 per day, with only one unravel to come home. I was given an editor who was basically retired at work. She was quite fond of the original shooter on the story, and disliked this turn of events, and hence, me. So, she gave me none of the research that had once been done, and did not squint at a single frame of the nearly 1,000 rolls I shot.
Thankfully, when then, Geographic had mucosa review. It was a trammels and review stop your mucosa passed through to make sure your cameras were working, and all things technical were on the up side. Kennedy, knowing my editor was out to lunch on this one, would wing through there and grab a view at a few frames, and tell them to undeniability me with this message. “Tell him he’s failing.” He was sincerely trying to be helpful, in his own unmodified way.
I thought I was going mad. I looked through the lens listlessly. Then, Sam Abell saved me. A wise, veteran shooter, I sought him out in my one break, and showed him reprinting Polaroids of my Kodachromes. I told him I was unappetizing out crashing and burning, and in the field, I was like an airplane pilot who had lost altitude, airspeed, and ideas, all at once. Sam looked at the lot of postcard size images. He turned to me, and said, “Joe, just alimony doing what you’re doing. The photography’s well in hand.”
That’s all you need somebody to say, right? Thus buoyed, I unquestionably had the strength to pick up the camera again, and I sink lanugo for the ensuing stint of nine straight weeks in the field. The story got upped in page count, which meant they liked it.
Kennedy tabbed again. No story in trouble this time. It was a science story, tabbed The Sense of Sight.
It was a round the world opportunity to examine the miracle known as human vision. Can you imagine? As a photog, I got a endangerment to study, shoot, and explain to others the marvel that is the human eye. The contract was for 26 weeks, at $500 a day. It was like getting tabbed up to the bigs from rookie league ball. It remains the most well-constructed opportunity I’ve overly had as a shooter. The proving ground had worked. I’d passed my tests. They were now really willing to risk something big on this untidy numnuts of a NY shooter. And I do midpoint risk. The worthier stories at Nat Geo had price tags way into six figures. Lots of planning, research and dough went into putting you, with a camera, in a place where the wild pictures are.
It moreover brought me together with Bill Douthitt, who has been my editor, and friend, on ten stories over the years. A true renaissance man, he knows increasingly stuff well-nigh increasingly stuff than just well-nigh everyone I know. Having him in your corner, shaping the story, editing your images, listening to your rants, and re-directing your overheated imagination, is what it ways to really, truly collaborate. He’s unchangingly been a source of support and encouragement.
For instance, he once wrote to me that “a perusal of your latest take indicates you’re unescapable the story with the zeal and vigor often associated with the largest varieties of shrubbery.” It’s basically like working for @ShitMyDadSays.
It’s not an easy passage, this yellow verge crossing. There’s heartbreak and failure withal the way. There’s emotional discord and stress, both in the field, and at home. There’s unvarying risk, and exposure to things that are strange and new. (Which is unconfined fodder for photographic zeal, to be sure, but fatiguing at the same time. Without four or five weeks of eating stuff you don’t ask questions about, sometimes, you just want a cheeseburger and a coke.)
There’s loneliness. Sometimes you are in a place where you can only communicate with your fixer, and virtually no one else, given language barriers. Given the ongoing stress of feeling like you’re shooting garbage, you get literally jack hammered by your own uncertainties and insecurities. (Feel nervous well-nigh digital storage, and not losing your images out in the field? Try shipping 75 rolls of Kodachrome when to DC from Mumbai in a bag. When I would do stuff like that, I literally could not eat until I got word the mucosa had arrived safely.) You travel by yourself, navigate dicey borders, get harassed and questioned. Anyone out there who thinks a letter of work from National Geographic confers upon the bearer a Moses-like worthiness to part waters and make unconfined pictures happen, is just, well, wrong in that assumption.
It’s not for the faint of heart, in short. There are photographic rewards, to be sure. That sight work was exactly as Kennedy described it on the phone to me that day. It was a gateway. Navigate this bridge, and school’s out. You can undeniability yourself a Nat Geo shooter.
At the dictate of the magazine, you see marvelous, not to be repeated things. You witness the unconfined trends and developments of our time, and turn your lens on stunningly trappy stuff, withal with heart breaking moments. You observe the tilts and whirls of culture, science, nature, and human policies in a special way. And you bring when visual dispatches that wilt a window on the world for some 30 million pairs of eyes. Very cool, and, a huge responsibility. You moreover live in fear that when the moment happens, the one you’ve come for, you will miss it.
And, here’s a small thing, a perk if you will, of pushing yourself lanugo this occasionally precipitous and never smooth road. You get to be in this small group, a club, that carries a very nonflexible won membership card. For the last 30 years, the folks who have pulled the picture wagon for the yellow verge magazine number no increasingly than say, a hundred.
Every year, in January, the yellow magazine calls together its’ shooters for a couple days of meetings. There is a photog’s lunch, and we are a small number, in a relatively small room. There is, in wing to exhaustion, tension, and uncertainty well-nigh the future, a ripple of quiet pride in the room. There’s moreover jealousies, bad feelings, and huge egos. Without all, it’s a room full of photogs.
At the whence of the lunch we have been traditionally asked to go virtually and say no increasingly than an introductory sentence or two well-nigh ourselves, in specimen there are new people there. It passes around, and people simply say something like, “I’m so and so, and I just shot the recent imbricate on such and such.” Or, “I’m so and so, and I’ve been shooting for the magazine for 22 years.” Bits and pieces like that. Snippets.
At the last one I was at, a very esteemed and talented photographer, a mainstay of the merchantry for many years, who for some reason never had the endangerment to shoot for the magazine, was there. That year marked his first published coverage and thus his first invite to the lunch.. He introduced himself. “I’m….”
Then he paused, smiled, and looked virtually the room. “And I’ve been waiting the longest to be in this room.” He sat lanugo to applause.