Swashbuckling Photography (Chocolate Paradise)
Thursday, May 7th, 2009

Swashbuckling photography was something I thought was relegated to comic books. You know, something for the funny pages – the always on-the-spot photographer, like Jimmy Olsen or Peter Parker – good natured and fun, but definitely talented and hard-nosed when he needs to be. Aaron Lindberg taught me that those caricatures come from real life photojournalists, and that they weren’t derived from comic strip frames. (Here are some kind words he posted about me this week).

The hard-working photographer ducks elbows, waiters, the police at taped off crime scenes, scales fire escapes to shoot above crowds or at fancy award ceremonies, kneels between tables and gets a shot while looking out for chairs being pushed back or dinner guests walking with plates and not noticing him on his knee. The hard-working photographer is out to get the basic shots that work for whoever’s hired them while also trying to take the fanciful trick shot that none of the other photographers in the room would get or even think about. This is Aaron Lindberg’s approach to photography. When he’s in the field, the only detail that is missing is the Indiana Jones cap and the Audio Slave soundtrack.

Aaron and I interviewed for our jobs at PlattForm Advertising on the same day in May 2005. Outside the HR offices, we sat together in leather chairs with billowed arms and backs – the kind prone to swallowing up bodies – and didn’t speak. I thought he might be 15 years old. I suppose because writers tend to notice random details, I remember he had on a silver watch and a short-sleeved dress shirt that was nearly the same color. He kept his legs folded and a hand over his chin with his forefinger extended over his lip. I decided, then, that he was a fresh college graduate in his early 20s and that at 30, I could not longer tell anyone’s age if they were younger than me by more than a year or two. They were kids and I was old.

He got the staff photography job. I got mine. And together, over the last four years, we’ve roomed together on eight or 10 business trips to Las Vegas and Washington, D.C. I’ve seen him work rooms stacked with 600-800 people and a half-dozen photographers. Rather than battling them for space, he works his way around to open places where he can land the most impressive photos from the group with out the hassle. (I’ve been the subject for many photo shoots with him and, with the exception of one or two instances, I always look like shit. This has nothing to do with his work, mind you. This has everything to do with his subject. The few shots I was pleased with were as good as anyone can make me look.)

Once, I believe the first time we roomed together, was at a convention in Las Vegas in 2006. We were staying in a posh room at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. One night (it was morning actually, about 4), Aaron trudged into the room tired from drinking and, in the slanted light from the hallway before the door closed, felt his way to his bed and dropped down for the night. I got up the next morning, took a shower, and he eventually climbed out from bed for a bathroom visit. While he was crossing the room, I noticed that his body was streaked all over with what appeared to be shit.

I said something like, “Dude, what happened to you? What is that?”

One thing about photographers – some tend to be a little high strung. Frantically, Aaron started searching for an answer. He checked his drawers. He checked himself. Where did the brown stuff come from? He asked me if I had anything to do with it. “I had NOTHING to do with. Believe me.”

After a few minutes, he found little chocolate wrappers that the help had left on his pillow the day before. He’d missed them in the night and tossed and turned on them for the few hours he managed to sleep.

But here’s the interesting part. He sat down with a Bellagio pen and Bellagio paper to write a note for housekeeping. He asked me to help him write it since words are not his gift. I thought this was funny because what was he going to say? “Dear Housekeeping, I did not shit my pants. Those are merely chocolate stains on the bed.” And what magic could I possible bring to that?

Aaron has his own company now – a hard-wood floor loft in the arts district downtown. He has his own work framed on the wall. He has a sitting area to visit with clients and the floor space to conduct open-window fashion shoots. He’s come along way. On the taxi rides and plane trips, on walks through casinos and the houses of government, I seemed to learn something in watching him: You’ll never be younger than you are now. And you have to be yourself. He doesn’t know he taught me this. You might have someone like this in your life. Someone that walks into your space, does nothing more than be himself, and you can’t help but take something away from the experience. But in most cases, we generally don’t divulge that to these people.

I am 34 years old now, in many ways starting my life over. I’m not afraid. I’m not even hopeful. I’m as young as I’m going to be (a few seconds older after writing that last sentence). When a waiter throws an elbow or a cop blows a whistle at you, you have to duck. You have to climb the fire escape faster. When the world leaves a chocolate on your pillow and something meant to be good gets smeared on the bed sheets, its best just to pull the sheets up and move on – as long as a piece of you cares enough to want to leave a note.

Tags: People