Creative: Society of Photographic Education, Day Two

The first part of this post is an aside to my time in photography school. This was spurred by running into a photographer named Judy Walgren. Judy is a friend, but perhaps even more importantly, was one of the first “real” photographers I encountered as I was beginning my training. She had transited the program several years before me and her work was strategically placed at the school in a way that made it nearly impossible for me not to be influenced by it.

In 1990, I enrolled at the University of Texas. I was clueless, lost, semi-functional and viewed by some as a waste of oxygen. What few skills I had were not held in high regard. My idea of fashion was white high tops, an Izod shirt with the collar up and baggy parachute pants. The opposite sex had no interest, nor did my own. I had few friends, no real plan, and my test scores were running at the minimum required. What I could do was make pictures, or so I thought.

Entering into the photojournalism program, I had a leg up. I had already worked at another college paper and had already done freelance assignments on the side. I had a fancy two-gun rig, knew what it meant to shoot under pressure, and had already seen my work in publication. But I was about to get poleaxed.

Entering the darkroom at UT, I began to feel purpose. The smell of fixer, the frenetic energy of those on deadline and a perpetually moving target of images yet to be made. My life was about hunting pictures. Day and night. I bought a cheap police scanner and parked my old Landcruiser under I35 and waited for the mayhem that was East Austin to happen. (now hipsterville) Domestic violence, arson, house fires, homicides, gang shootings, all the things I loved more than life itself. (This sounds horrible but it’s true.)

Sitting motionless in the Cruiser, listening to the static and hiss, waiting for the crackle of “box alarm,” or “shots fired.” A perverse love of darkness and drama. I would roll on the scene, often arriving before police or fire, framing up the pieces of lives, possessions, and freedoms left behind. There was no code or higher honor, or professing righteousness in a world caught between good and evil. I never thought about ethics. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about people, it was that there was only the photograph. Nothing else mattered. The screams, tears, and hate drowned out by the tiny rectangle through which I experienced the world. And when the gunshots came my way there was rarely a thought of “I might get hit.” There was only, “breathe, frame it up, move, breathe, frame it up, move.” It was sexy. It was glamorous. It was exotic. Because I could get in my car and drive away, instantly returning to the world of sorority girls and ten cent pitchers at the tiny bar next to the gas station. It was almost as if the experience was an illusion until I louped a wet negative in the tiny processing room at the college. The ramifications of what I was photographing a separate, distant reality from my own.

I learned to print when there were the least amount of fellow students in the darkroom. Explaining myself, and the work, felt laborious. Like sharing a secret or a private conversation. There were other students who shared the same “ideology” about what we were doing. There was someone working in Boy’s Town across the border in Mexico, another doing a story on peyote and the Huichol. Another taking trips home to Haiti while on break, but most of the other students were running in place. Undecided about direction or if this photography thing was meant to be. Not me.

And then someone tacked up tear sheets on the wall above the mounting presses. A photo essay from the Dallas Morning News. A damn fine photo essay from the Dallas Morning News. Photo credit, Judy Walgren. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so good about myself. These images, and the story, were far better than anything I was doing. The layout, the space, and the copy all adding to the power of the piece. Standing over the press, waiting for the machine to heat up, there was nowhere else to look but at Judy’s work. Sobering. Motivating.

Ego leaking air like a balding tire, I was forced to confront the ideas of hierarchy, skill, talent, experience and tenacity. I was in single-A ball while Judy was pitching for the Yankees. I had a decision to make. Be pissed or learn. I chose learn. Judy became my portal to the Morning News. The Morning News became my portal to The Globe, the Inquirer, the Free Press, The Post, and The Times. The major leagues of news photographers. I gradually slid into their slipstream until I was making my own work and getting my own assignments. But the memory of those tear sheets never went away.

Decades later I finally met Judy, and what a pleasant surprise to find a kind, warm, hilarious, laid-back human being who is still as driven by storytelling as she was back then. After wars in Bosnia, Rwanda, and Somalia, and Pulitzer Prize for her reporting, she is now passing on her knowledge to students at Foothill College in California. Me, well, I finally got my head out of my ass, mostly, and began to take a bit more responsibility for myself and my pictures, but as many of you know, I’ve still got a ways to go.

Okay, Phillip Toledano. This mornings speaker here at SPE. Good speaker and a good sense of humor. Said a few things you want to ponder.

“I’m an artist, so I can do anything and don’t have the restrictions of classic photography.” This is a major point, and something to consider. It might sound pretentious but it’s not. In fact, it’s actually quite freeing and one reason why many “classic” photographer types are venturing more into the conceptual world. Fewer rules.

“All my images are made on a phone.” I don’t have to doom scroll.” “I can make art.” Again, get off the phone unless you are using it to your advantage.

“My work has been stolen many times, both by individuals and now by corporate entities, I’m not sure which is worse.” This was brought up in regard to images being coopted into the AI universe. He uses AI, so is this a contradiction? And yes, his work has been coopted by the AI machines. I find this an interesting situation, and he explained himself well.

“I’d want to be there in person.” When asked if he would rather do a shoot in the real world or just do the entire thing via AI. However, the kind of shoot he was referring to was an AI style images, so something entirely unrealistic to produce.

What else happened on day two? Lots. I did NOT win the Sony raffle. Must have been rigged. Stolen! Fake! Bad! I did not win any other raffle either. Rigged! I did not get a free B&H beanie, and I don’t think I won the Hahnemüle trip for two to Paris. Fake! I made a hot lap around the arch late yesterday afternoon because it’s RIGHT NEXT TO THE HOTEL. I had numerous Blurb conversations, and because I am so awesome, I changed a lot of hearts and minds when it comes to printing books.

I’ve had nonstop conversations with more people than I can count. I’ve seen people I haven’t seen in ten years, and I’ve met some truly badass young photographers who are setting the table for successful careers. When I was in school, I had a pencil, some paper, a film camera and my telephone was bolted to the wall. These kids are light years ahead, at least in some ways, so it’s fun to see the next generation warming up in the creative bullpen.