Every year at the end of summer, almost 2 million people attend the Minnesota State Fair, including us. I always bring a camera. But this year I've decided to shoot it. And I'm going all 12 days.
I spend the first one with my girls, riding the rides, scouting for shots I might like to make later.
Day one attendance: 103,947 people.
Friday, November 14, 2008
State Fair day II :: hello elmo
I'm hiding under a baseball cap and sunglasses.
I have a phobia about making art in front of people. It's something I usually shake after the first couple of frames - like jumping into cold water. But I'm in the serious dread phase now, almost sick from the unwanted attention that I'm about to receive from 100,000 strangers.
I see a friend of a friend, smoking in the same spot I saw her last year. I buy a bucket of french fries and sit in the dirty grass, watching people. A married couple that I've met before stumbles toward me with their screaming kids. I duck.
Still procrastinating, I somehow drip a dollop of ketchup into one of my crocs, and proceed to slip around in it. The light is fading fast. My stomache aches, and I'm fighting the crowd with my camera bags. I haven't shot anything yet.
And then I see Elmo.
Amelia Santenello, one of my favorite newscasters, walks past in spike-heeled boots. A photo assistant I used to know stops by and says hi. Says he could see me from a mile away.
Day two attendance: 96,993 people.
I have a phobia about making art in front of people. It's something I usually shake after the first couple of frames - like jumping into cold water. But I'm in the serious dread phase now, almost sick from the unwanted attention that I'm about to receive from 100,000 strangers.
I see a friend of a friend, smoking in the same spot I saw her last year. I buy a bucket of french fries and sit in the dirty grass, watching people. A married couple that I've met before stumbles toward me with their screaming kids. I duck.
Still procrastinating, I somehow drip a dollop of ketchup into one of my crocs, and proceed to slip around in it. The light is fading fast. My stomache aches, and I'm fighting the crowd with my camera bags. I haven't shot anything yet.
And then I see Elmo.
Amelia Santenello, one of my favorite newscasters, walks past in spike-heeled boots. A photo assistant I used to know stops by and says hi. Says he could see me from a mile away.
Day two attendance: 96,993 people.
State Fair day III :: got any gum?
Lost in the crowd with my camera, standing on a small ladder while I shoot, a kid comes up and asks if I'll watch his coffee while he goes on a ride. He's about 10 years old.
Another kid comes up and asks me if my camera is a camera. I look at him.
"Actually," he says, "I'm wondering if you have any gum."
The carnies start to recognize me, giving the nod & wink when I walk past. A man who owns a few of the booths stops to chat for the second night in a row. He's curious to see how my project is coming along.
I'm starting to get more comfortable.
Day Three attendance: 171,663 people.
State Fair day IV :: some people I know
By the time I start shooting, the sun's gone. It's Sunday night, and crowded. People are standing in front of my lens. I can barely get a shot. An art director says hi. Everyone is talking to me - I'm not sure what I'm getting.
Somebody jumps. An old friend, back in town with his girlfriend for the fair. I'm shaking hands and shooting. I'm getting something - I think.
I head for the back corner and wait for the fair to end. Maybe see the fireworks.
Day Four attendance: 183,528 people.
State Fair day V :: the zipper
It's Monday, and I'm having trouble waking up. I arrive at the fair late, and hungry. I haul my gear through the crowd, looking for food. I get a foot-long and a rice crispy bar.
I go straight to the Zipper.
Then I set up in the walkway - in the middle of the moving crowd. Thousands of people, mugging for the camera, shouting at me, touching me, asking insane questions.
Day Five attendance: 130,767 people.
I go straight to the Zipper.
Then I set up in the walkway - in the middle of the moving crowd. Thousands of people, mugging for the camera, shouting at me, touching me, asking insane questions.
Day Five attendance: 130,767 people.
State Fair day VI :: whacamole
The Whacamole operator talks directly to me while I'm shooting, through his microphone. He's excited to see my photos, and barks out a request for my web address.
Day six attendance: 117,196 people.
State Fair day VII :: carnival sounds
Rainy day. I set up with my back to the haunted house. A low, barely audible heartbeat. Bats chirping. Screams. A bell rings; somebody blows a whistle.
The spookhouse carney comes over. He talks to me like I work there; like any other unlicensed hawker, working my magic, hoping for cash.
It starts to rain. He tells me there's a bad storm coming. Says it's time to go.
Day seven attendance: 88,228 people.
State Fair day VIII :: crazymouse
Arrived late... found this shot on my way in, through the back gate.
Day eight attendance: 116,143 people.
State Fair day IX :: avalanche
The late nights are adding up. By the time I get to the fair, I'm already exhausted from a full day of estimating, invoicing, and conference calling.
It's a busy Friday night. I set up and shoot the roller coaster. I don't have enough energy to think about the shot. I'm hoping it still looks good in two weeks.
A young couple comes up. The girl asks if she can take my picture. Says her boyfriend has a camera fetish. She wants to take our picture together, in front of my view camera. He asks if he can put his arm around me.
I ignore them and keep shooting.
Day nine attendance: 165,194 people.
State Fair day X :: fireball
I spend the first half of the day with my family, going on rides and eating fried snickers bars.
Then I shoot the fireball.
A young man, fully tattooed in a wife-beater shirt, sticks his pierced face in front of mine and says, "That camera is BAD ASS."
Day ten attendance: 209,399 people.
State Fair day XI :: xtreme photography
I'm standing on a bench to get this shot, with my tripod fully extended. This has got to be the busiest place I've ever photographed. It's already getting dark, and I'm feeling frantic. At one point I lose my balance and almost dump my camera.
The additional height is like a red flag, bringing with it an onslaught of unwanted attention. But it's mostly from other photographers.
A young guy comes up to me while I'm shooting and tells me that I look pretty serious. I turn to him, embarrassed, and I reply that I didn't realize I was frowning so hard.
He says, "No, you look pretty serious about photography."
Another fellow asks if I'll speak at his camera club. But I've already spoken there, twice.
A 30-something woman, chaperoning 10 kids in McCain t-shirts, comes up and starts telling me about her darkroom. While I'm talking to her, another photographer friend walks past, pokes my arm, and says hi.
A man asks me what software I use to process raw files.
A woman in the crowd turns toward me, cups her hands around her mouth, and shouts: "WHO ARE YOU SHOOTING FOR?"
Day eleven attendance: 189,228 people.
The additional height is like a red flag, bringing with it an onslaught of unwanted attention. But it's mostly from other photographers.
A young guy comes up to me while I'm shooting and tells me that I look pretty serious. I turn to him, embarrassed, and I reply that I didn't realize I was frowning so hard.
He says, "No, you look pretty serious about photography."
Another fellow asks if I'll speak at his camera club. But I've already spoken there, twice.
A 30-something woman, chaperoning 10 kids in McCain t-shirts, comes up and starts telling me about her darkroom. While I'm talking to her, another photographer friend walks past, pokes my arm, and says hi.
A man asks me what software I use to process raw files.
A woman in the crowd turns toward me, cups her hands around her mouth, and shouts: "WHO ARE YOU SHOOTING FOR?"
Day eleven attendance: 189,228 people.
State Fair Day XII :: a brush with palin
It's Labor Day, and I'm eating lunch with my family at home.
My cell phone rings, but I don't answer; I'm talking to my father-in-law. Twenty minutes later, I'm flying down the highway, on my way to the fair. I check my messages.
It's Time magazine. They want to know if I'm available to photograph Sara Palin at the RNC in St. Paul, for the cover. Today.
Dang.
I stop at my studio, fill up the van with strobe gear, call my assistant, and hit the fair. I reckon I might as well reshoot the Xtreme, this time with daylight, while we wait for the call.
I hand Josh a video camera to keep him busy. You can see a little movie here.
We quit early, and toast the last night of summer from a state fair cafe. My phone doesn't ring. The fair ends.
Day Twelve attendance: 121,220 people.
My cell phone rings, but I don't answer; I'm talking to my father-in-law. Twenty minutes later, I'm flying down the highway, on my way to the fair. I check my messages.
It's Time magazine. They want to know if I'm available to photograph Sara Palin at the RNC in St. Paul, for the cover. Today.
Dang.
I stop at my studio, fill up the van with strobe gear, call my assistant, and hit the fair. I reckon I might as well reshoot the Xtreme, this time with daylight, while we wait for the call.
I hand Josh a video camera to keep him busy. You can see a little movie here.
We quit early, and toast the last night of summer from a state fair cafe. My phone doesn't ring. The fair ends.
Day Twelve attendance: 121,220 people.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The Accidental Journalist
Men's Journal sent me to the western suburbs of Minneapolis today, to photograph a 30-year-old Democratic candidate for the US House of Representatives.
I arrived at his local Polling Station at 6:30 AM to watch him vote. And to get some pictures for the story: a piece about Iraq War vets running for political office.
It was a quiet morning, with a long line snaking out the elementary school door, before the polls had even opened. As the sky began to brighten, the line started to move, and the lady in charge came out screaming. Said she was going to have me arrested if I photographed anyone or anything.
Part of me wanted to argue with her. As an American citizen, my right to photograph news events in a public setting is guaranteed by the US Constitution. Read the Bill of Rights, for crying eye. But I wasn't looking for a fight. All I wanted at that moment was a little more coffee. And my basic human rights.
For the rest of the day, I followed the candidate from location to location, watching him glad-hand half the electorate, always at least 100 feet from the entrance to a polling place. But almost every time, either the cops or the lunch ladies chased us out of there. Before long we had an armada of frat boys tailing our cars, following our every move, waving their signs for the other guy.
It got so ugly that my candidate eventually ditched everyone, including me. So I drove back into the city and met my family outside my local polling place. I still had my camera around my neck as I walked inside, holding hands with my seven-year-old daughter. I was amazed at how comfortable my local voting station felt, after being hounded by the conservative suburban authorities all day.
I felt so relaxed, in fact, that I made a few snaps while voting... just a couple shots of my daughter, and the surroundings. For posterity - you know, the whole 'hanging chads' thing. But I got in trouble there too. A volunteer chased my daughter and I down the hallway, wanting to know WHY I was photographing. And WHAT was I photographing?
She went so far as to demand my name and phone number, just in case... (just in case she decides to throw a brick through my window?) I was starting to get a headache: Let the election hangover begin.
I sat down to a plate of turkey meatloaf with my family, pounded some Tension Tamer tea, and drove back to the suburbs, for a rendezvous with the candidate at his parents' home. I set up my lights in their living room, to shoot a quick portrait after the polls closed.
It struck me as unique, and wonderful, to be inside the parents' home of a politician on election night; waiting for him to come home; to see his face as he came through the door, exhausted from two years campaigning, and to photograph him, at that moment, before he has a chance to sit down and start watching election returns.
Afterward, I hit the election-night party at the local American Legion post. I had every intention of photographing the candidate on stage, accepting his new seat in the US Congress. But it didn't happen. He lost.
I arrived at his local Polling Station at 6:30 AM to watch him vote. And to get some pictures for the story: a piece about Iraq War vets running for political office.
It was a quiet morning, with a long line snaking out the elementary school door, before the polls had even opened. As the sky began to brighten, the line started to move, and the lady in charge came out screaming. Said she was going to have me arrested if I photographed anyone or anything.
Part of me wanted to argue with her. As an American citizen, my right to photograph news events in a public setting is guaranteed by the US Constitution. Read the Bill of Rights, for crying eye. But I wasn't looking for a fight. All I wanted at that moment was a little more coffee. And my basic human rights.
For the rest of the day, I followed the candidate from location to location, watching him glad-hand half the electorate, always at least 100 feet from the entrance to a polling place. But almost every time, either the cops or the lunch ladies chased us out of there. Before long we had an armada of frat boys tailing our cars, following our every move, waving their signs for the other guy.
It got so ugly that my candidate eventually ditched everyone, including me. So I drove back into the city and met my family outside my local polling place. I still had my camera around my neck as I walked inside, holding hands with my seven-year-old daughter. I was amazed at how comfortable my local voting station felt, after being hounded by the conservative suburban authorities all day.
I felt so relaxed, in fact, that I made a few snaps while voting... just a couple shots of my daughter, and the surroundings. For posterity - you know, the whole 'hanging chads' thing. But I got in trouble there too. A volunteer chased my daughter and I down the hallway, wanting to know WHY I was photographing. And WHAT was I photographing?
She went so far as to demand my name and phone number, just in case... (just in case she decides to throw a brick through my window?) I was starting to get a headache: Let the election hangover begin.
I sat down to a plate of turkey meatloaf with my family, pounded some Tension Tamer tea, and drove back to the suburbs, for a rendezvous with the candidate at his parents' home. I set up my lights in their living room, to shoot a quick portrait after the polls closed.
It struck me as unique, and wonderful, to be inside the parents' home of a politician on election night; waiting for him to come home; to see his face as he came through the door, exhausted from two years campaigning, and to photograph him, at that moment, before he has a chance to sit down and start watching election returns.
Afterward, I hit the election-night party at the local American Legion post. I had every intention of photographing the candidate on stage, accepting his new seat in the US Congress. But it didn't happen. He lost.
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