Mark Weeks Photojournal

This writing is one that I wrote a number of years ago, long before the concept of a blog crossed my mind. Hopefully it has managed the test of time.

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When Michael moved out in 1999, he took with him two lamps that elegantly filled dark spaces. We met years earlier while singing with the local men’s chorus, and our friendship had been built largely around the notes and bars of that institution. We reveled in each other’s companionship and soon found ourselves laughing and chatting on a daily basis.  Both of us were transitioning from being post-college Midwestern boys into single career men of the city. We had an A-B relationship, Almost Boyfriends—all the comforts of a being boyfriends without the sex or the need for fidelity.  When Michael’s apartment lease expired, it was only natural that he moved in with me to build a home together. Though we were traveling a similar path, our roads where markedly different; I was seeking a life of international jet-setting, and Michael was providing basic social services to prostitutes and I.V. drug users in suburban Seattle. Our careers and goals could not be more dissimilar, yet when put together they created a rare and beautiful light.

Michael’s moving in transformed my large apartment into a cozy pad. Our furniture fit well together. A sleek pink couch beside an overstuffed chair, a mahogany bookcase and a garage sale pineapple lamp, a touch of Paris, a splash of Cleveland, a hint of Mexico, and a knowing glance from Minnesota all tossed together creating our home. Michael and I became firmly entrenched in adulthood. We abandoned the futons and particle board furniture of our puppy litter days, scaled back our parties, gardened and cooked, added a cat and realized the importance of good lighting. We dispersed lamps, candles, strands of Christmas lights and wall sconces throughout the apartment to warmly illuminate our home and our friendship. “At last, you have made a real home,” our friend Fred proclaimed. (This from the same man who had condemned one of my parties as “cheap and Spartan.”)

The lighting worked well at first, but when we decided to paint the dining room, controversy ensued. I consulted an interior decorator friend of mine from New York, and he suggested the color pink. I’d seen pink dining rooms done before and agreed it was just the touch our apartment needed to create an ambience suitable for intimate dinner parties. I could picture the gentle pink of the walls reflecting candlelight onto our guests, bathing them in warm elegance and encouraging them to linger late into the night drinking fine wine, eating exotic cheeses and engrossed in meaningful conversation.

Our implementation failed. We created a cotton candy nightmare, with a hint of wet bubble gum sheen. After a couple of days, we resolved to fix it. We toned down the pink by applying a wash to it and then painted salmon-colored vertical stripes for visual texture. The result was dramatic and did light well by night; a single candle transformed the room to a shimmering candy fantasy. By day, however, it looked like a piece of cinnamon taffy on steroids. The moment the last coat dried, my temperature shot up, my throat closed and four days later I remained in bed fighting the cold of the season. Each morning I woke and squinted past the Pepto Bismo palace, seeking refuge in the quieter rooms. I coped with the color for a month and a half, hoping it would grow on me, but ultimately resolved that it had to go. Michael, on the other hand, remained a steadfast supporter of the vibrant space,

“It’s fun,” he insisted.

“Sure it’s fun, Michael. It’s as fun as an ice cream parlor. But we have to live here.”

“It was your decision to paint it pink in the first place,” he countered.

“Yes, it was. I’m also happy to admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. The pink is bad. Really bad. It gives me headaches.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, Michael, it is that bad. I can’t even eat in there. The only thing I can think of when I’m in there is when we can get rid of it.”

“It took us a week and a half to finish,” his voice glowered. “I’m not painting the room again.”

I sensed a slight concession on his part and seized the opportunity to bypass further interior design landmines by offering to paint the room myself; all he would have to do is help choose the color. After we agreed on “Sandy Saddle,” I spent the next day transforming the space. Within hours I muted the loud walls to a subtle shade of suede. Michael returned to the apartment and nodded reluctantly.

“It’s too dark,” he grumbled.

“We can light it. How about with the floor lamp from the living room.”

This was Michael’s floor lamp. While he was not keen on disturbing the lighting in the living room, he agreed to move his lamp. Both rooms would be tolerable until I could resolve the situation by adding a new lamp to the pad. “I want to put this back soon, but it will do for now.”

We had reached temporary accommodation. Before I could buy a lamp and finish the project, I became distracted by a different beam. I started dating Deg  a guy who had great lighting—modern lights that cut the darkness, black was black and light was light. Soon I was the focal point of Deg’s halogen spotlights. They were hot and bright and completely captured my attention. I helped Deg pick out a couple of lamps that gently warmed his otherwise crisp apartment, and the two of us created a space that was very well lit.

Back at home though, I slacked off and Michael’s lamp remained in its temporary place. As weeks passed, Michael’s frustration grew. Our home had been disturbed, and I hadn’t fulfilled my promise of completing the space and returning his light to the proper place. We argued, we yelled. We resolved. The next day I found a pair of sleek chrome lamps, but they were missing shades. Shades, mind you, are what complete a room. Certain the lamps were right, I bought them in full faith I’d find suitable shades. Just steps outside the shop in a heap of garbage on the sidewalk were two rusted hanging lanterns—one red, one green that provided the exact contrast I had been seeking to compliment the bases—polished chrome with rusted texture. I picked them up, brought them home, set them in place, and returned Michael’s lamp to the living room. He finally beamed, “I love the room. It really works.” Once again our home became a friendly haven.

Though Michael and my home offered warm peace, I remained enamored with the heat of Deg’s spotlight until the day I stepped out of it to find Deg no longer turned on the lamps he and I had bought together. The room beyond his halogen was cold and lonely. I picked up a sweater, my toothbrush and a few personal pieces, and returned home to gently warm my frostbite.

Shortly thereafter, I developed a fear for hot lights. Too hot. Unsettling. Unnerving. I even ended my time with the chorus to get out of the spotlight. The heat of the stage lights kept Michael’s attention and he continued singing happily. I directed my energy to my career, and soon was a sprouting businessman hopping the globe working to grow a small software company. Airplane lights, hotel lights, desk lamps, glowing computer screens and the lights of cities far away replaced the cozy lighting of home. Michael’s job kept him close to home, and with me away so frequently, he’d tweak the lighting to suit his needs. I would return from a business trip, to my dusty bed lamp and altered illumination throughout the apartment. There was no longer mutual agreement over lighting, as the place was clearly lit in Michael’s favor. He’d tell me about his recent dinner party with Richard, Neal, and David and I’d only notice some wax on the wall. He’d mention the movie night he’d had with Scott and Kevin, and I’d become agitated by the blue light bulbs he’d installed in his bedroom. Blinded by the corporate ladder, I had no time for dinner parties and casual entertaining. I developed a festering jealousy towards mood lighting and the people who had the time for them. Michael and I soon found ourselves arguing over voltage. I needed searing-wake-up bathroom lights; Michael needed gentle-wake-up bathroom light. Dim lights were just that, dim. Candles were too messy, light bulbs couldn’t be bright enough; morning lights had to be bright, go, go, go. At evening, lights just had to be off. Darkness. Michael, on the other hand, simply wanted to enjoy the nest we’d created and adjust it accordingly.

When I took a break from work, I spent time seeking external light sources, frequently through dating. Though I met a number of guys, none had the lighting I was seeking. Evan’s rooms always glowed, but they remained cool and crisp lacking the warmth of candles. Robert opted for firelight and firelight alone. Popping wood, scented candles and smoldering cigarettes illuminated his home. The smoke got in my eyes. Ming opted for basic light, functionally sound but stylistically unattractive. Jonathan was a designer by trade, and his home glowed perfectly. I couldn’t imagine it lit any other way. But perfection holds little interest for me. A quirk, no matter how small, adds depth and resonates with my style and ultimately we couldn’t find middle ground so we pulled the plug on our relationship both leaving slightly frustrated, but not angry.

Michael dated too, though the men he met never seemed interested in lighting. Each was a bit austere and unacquainted with the hues of good lighting. Stephen was the only guy Michael dated that recognized good lighting when he saw it. He was afraid, however, to properly exercise his skill. His apartment was a perfect canvas for illumination, yet through scholarly neglect, a single desk lamp was the only focal point. Some nights, after our respective dates, Michael and I would find ourselves alone together in the apartment. We’d light a candle, turn on a lamp or two, put a soft CD on, and pour a glass of wine. We’d climb out his bedroom window to the fire escape to smoke cigarettes and watch the traffic below. We’d remember that our friendship was more than just cohabitation. After a tender hug and a giggle, we’d wish each other a “Sleep well” and close our bedroom doors.

When the Fourth of July came, Michael and I watched the fireworks together. Bright plumes cascaded over Elliot Bay. The Space Needle stood firmly planted while pinks, greens, reds, blues and yellows filled the sky above it. The sparks trailed into the water reaching a quiet end. Michael told me that night he’d found a house that he wanted to buy. He’d been looking for a few weeks, but now the reality of him moving was no longer a dream, it was an unstoppable reality. Each Fourth of July a local AM radio station plays patriotic music to accompany the fireworks. One of our neighbors brought a transistor radio to the rooftop and tried in vain to find the right station. After several crackles and a few bars of America the Beautiful, the batteries died. “They’ll be finished shortly, anyhow,” our downstairs neighbor Carol said. We watched the rest of the display in near silence; an occasional “Ooo” or “Ahh” broke in. After the grand finale, an over-zealous display of red, white and blue stars and stripes, petered out into the water, the crowd dispersed leaving Michael and me alone on the roof.

“I’ll miss you, Michael.”

“I’ll miss you too, but I am ready to make a home of my own. Christ, I’d always thought I’d do this with a partner, but I’m thirty-one now, if I wait for ‘him’ to come along, I’ll never do it.”

“I know what you mean,” was all I could muster up. I gave his hand a squeeze and we went inside. Two weeks later while I was off on a business trip Michael called to tell me he’d closed on his house. His move-in date was set for August 15, so he assured me he’d cover his part of the rent for the first two weeks of the month. Within weeks what had been our home once again became a large apartment, but this time, I was alone.

The first night a couple of friends stopped by to have a look and assure me it was a great canvass to fill. I spent the next few weeks steaming the rugs, scrubbing the wood floors on my hands and knees, and moving furniture around to fill the place, I was still left with stark walls and dark spaces throughout the place. I threw myself into my career even further. More work. More travel. More quiet returns to an echoing pad. I separated my chrome lamps to try and make sense of the space. I shifted the furniture around again to create the right environment, but no matter what I did, something remained off. When I visited Michael’s home, the first thing I noticed was how the rooms of his house glowed invitingly with vibrant colors inspired by his Mexican adventures. Crisp, warm lights filled the rooms. All corners were touched and loved.

My career took flight. Dashing between meetings in New York and Los Angeles. , London and Amsterdam, Hong Kong and Tokyo, I met with potential investors, introduced software to future customers and spoke at length with journalists about how our software was the next “killer app.” When I was back in Seattle, I spent hours at the office managing a team and deciding our next product features. But I rarely stepped foot in my apartment. I ate out virtually every night. I had my shirts dry cleaned. I even hired a cleaning lady to simply wipe the dust and water the plants, A night of nesting at home never crossed my mind.

On a cool cloudy morning back in Seattle, I took a day off from work to do errands. I stepped into a shop off Pine Street. A simple antique floor lamp with a thin striped shade greeted me at the door. I tested the lamp, but the bulb did not work. I asked the shopkeeper for another bulb. We tried that, but it didn’t work either. “Hmm,” she commented from behind her modern, cat eye glasses, “My lamp guy said it was fixed, I can send it back and have him work on it again.”

“No problem, I can wait.”

“Next week okay? Try Thursday or Friday.”

“Sounds good.” I left her my number in case she got it back sooner. I took her card and carefully wrote “Call Thursday” on the back, and ducked out with a quick wave.

Over the course of the next two months I phoned and dropped by weekly and each time was assured it should be back any day. The lamp arrived when it was ready. To welcome it, I repainted the whole apartment. It fit in immediately, gently warming my chilled bedroom. I reunited the chrome lamps and realized that there was only one more space to light.

Artist: Jim Coughenour

When asked what my favorite hobbies are, invariably I reply  running, playing bridge, reading, or grabbing a pint of beer.  It dawned on me the other day, that browsing through card shops is really one of my favorite hobbies, although I expect few people consider it a hobby.

The first card store I remember was Lee’s Pharmacy in Zumbrota, it sold Hallmark cards. Grandma Swee brought me there when I was pretty young. I didn’t see the big deal. Pastel colored paper with loads of script and words and all of the cards had a sickly floral smell. I was not impressed. It had to have been when I was  thirteen or fourteen when on a family outing to the Apache Mall in Rochester, I discovered Cardvaarks, a shop full of irreverent cards of all shapes and sizes. Thus began my addiction.

Amongst the brightly-colored “Lordy, You’re 40!” balloons and the lava lamps in the windows, were racks and racks of cards that would make my mother blush. It was fantastic. There were the silly, the rude and of course the nude. I saw my first naked-man birthday card and was quite tempted to slip it into my bag. I was sure that someone I knew would appreciate it. I spent countless hours at Cardvaarks, memorizing the pictures and the text, taking the time to figure out just who a card would be appropriate for.

I bought stacks of cards. Birthday, Christmas, occasional, thank you, and even romantic ones. Each had to have a striking image or at least a catchy quip. While Hallmark cards generally hovered around 75¢, Cardvaarks got away with charging $1.50 or more, but when I had my heart set on the perfect card, no expense could be spared.

Over the years I’ve sent countless cards. Postcards from Spain, birthday cards to my Aunt back in Zumbrota, and of course mother’s day and father’s day cards from wherever my hat has been. Christmas always gets me. It’s a great time to play catch up with old friends, though I’m not a big fan of the generic Christmas letter. My aunt Mary Jane used to send a mimeographed letter to everyone back in the 70′s sharing what each family member had been up to, with each person carefully described in  third person, including the author herself. It defied reason when I read what  “Mary Jane” had been up to.

As the antithesis to the catch-all letter, for a number of years in the nineties, I made my own cards. Yes, it was a budget production, but I had a lot of fun. My favorite  one was made from a stamp of  Joan Crawford screaming in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I cut out a little red hat from construction paper, pasted that and a little bit of cotton ball to make a little Santa hat on top. I remember constructing the cards on a flight from Seattle to Minneapolis. It was back in the day when you could carry a scissors and glue on a plane without being flagged as a prime terrorist suspect. I was seated in a middle seat next to a mother and her four-year-old son. He was restless and loud, but when I pulled out the cards and started making stuff, he was mesmerized and wanted to make cards too. I quickly set the tyke and his nimble fingers to work, pasting hats on Screaming Joan and I’d then put the finishing touch of cotton on afterwards. It was a lot of fun, and he remained a content and quiet travel companion for the duration of the flight.

Much like cards, flying too has been a fascination of mine. When I finished university, I had a brief stint as  a flight attendant for the newly defunct Northwest Airlines. It was when I was working for Northwest that I came across the First the Wrong Vodka card. It was out of control funny. I read it over and over and mused about it for weeks. I bought it without a recipient in mind and probably even intended to keep it myself. Then one day, someone must have seemed important enough to send it to and poof! it was gone. Gone but not forgotten.

Do you ever have those moments when you regret giving something up? Perhaps it was a mixed tape that you really loved but gave it away during a fleeting romance, but forgot to write down the playlist. Maybe it was a sweatshirt that you lent to a friend of a friend at a summer’s eve picnic and which you know you’ll never see  again. For me, parting with that card, had to be one of those regrets. In fact, it had such an impact on my sense of humor at the time, I still recall precisely when and where I bought it. It was autumn 1992. I was back in Minnesota on a layover from Seattle and nipped into a card shop in Uptown (Minneapolis) to get a sympathy card for a friend’s grandmother. She was  on life support, but I knew her days were numbered and it was the only chance I’d have to get the card, with my travel and all. After spending an inordinate amount of time poring over the entire shop, I got the sympathy card, but then saw Jennifer.The tipping cocktail glass, the flying olive, the thoroughly messed up passengers, and then Jennifer. Bitter, unshaken and seething, she faces death with the same disdain as  she probably would give a  man who sneezes  too loudly or a girl whose skirt is a bit too short.

For months, I sat on the card. I brought it back to Seattle and sat on it, waiting for the right recipient. To be honest, I really don’t recall who got it in the end. Probably someone who thought it was funny, albeit highly inappropriate. They probably sniggered for a moment and then after a few days, chucked it into the garbage can. At the same time, they probably did get some gratification from it, but most likely, once it was gone, they forgot about it.

One of the greatest things about the Internet is finding stuff. Really, you can use it to find useful and absolutely frivolous things. People search for movies, restaurants, cars, computers, husbands, wives, porn and friends on the Internet. I use the Internet to find cards.

A few years ago, I did a search for “first the wrong vodka, now this” and nothing happened. Then a year later I did the same search and still nothing came up. On Monday this week, just before bed, I typed in those six memorable words. I was amazed. A blogger in Portland, Oregon quoted the card as part of his blog, and to my delight, the artist himself had commented on the blogger’s post. I followed the link to the site of my new hero, Jim Coughenour.

Visiting Jim’s site, I found countless images that made me smile, but Jennifer was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, however, there was an email button. I sent him an email and miraculously the next day received a reply, with a full resolution TIFF image. Without question, the highlight of my week.

While sorting through a few odds and ends this week, I also came across another of my favorite cards, this time one I didn’t part with. The third and final card that remains clearly embedded in my mind is one with the phrase SNAWW, an acronym for “She’s Not a Well Woman.” If anyone comes across that card, let me know!

Ever since I was a child, morning has been my best time of day. One of my earliest memories was waking early one frosty Minnesota morning to help my grandpa milk his cows. It was dark when we started. Walking from the house to the pump house to feed the cats and then onto the barn to milk, the  darkness of the morning was strangely comforting. When we finished milking, the sun rising over thee barnyard and we returned to the house where grandma had breakfast waiting for us.
In my teens, when my  alarm went off, I was straight out of bed, and after a quick shower, was usually was the first kid at school. It was when I was  at university that I really came to terms with being a  morning person. If I needed to finish a paper or get to the heart of a difficult assignment, pulling an all-nighter was the worst thing I could do. I consistently lost focus around 6:00 pm and would just get frustrated. I found that putting my crayons away at dinner time and then  getting up with the crows the next morning was the key to getting a project done  properly.

Over the years, having a productive morning has become an integral part of my life. During my early-twenties, I taught a morning aerobics class three days a week. It was surprisingly fun. There was a core group of students who regularly came to my classes, leaping and jumping until sunup.  I still love morning work outs, but mostly just go running now. The fresh air is great in the mornings and it also preempts chance of finding any  excuses not to work out.

Since moving to London, part of my morning routine is taking care of the household chores. I’m generally up between 6 and 6:30 and have about an hour of time by myself. I spend the time in our kitchen preparing breakfasts and lunches, feeding Oberon (our cat), tidying up and the general household tasks. The Today Programme on Radio4 provides a running commentary on the news and events of the day (for Americans, it’s similar to Morning Edition on NPR).

One of the things I really enjoy about the Today Programme is that the presenters don’t shy away from controversy and frequently have guests with opposing views on a subject to debate. If two sides are not readily available, the presenters themselves play devil’s advocate. Politicians, activists, business leaders and random newsworthy folks are all subject to varying degrees of scrutiny.

It is this persistence of the British media to get real answers that sets the Today Programme apart from the US’s Morning Edition. In the UK, when a politician or business leader side-steps a reporter’s question, the reporter points out that the question was side-stepped, and the presenter asks the question again until it’s answered, or admonishes their guest for not being straight with the public. The interview style practiced in Britain is markedly different than the more touchy-feely American style. Remember Katie Couric interviewing Sarah Palin about her choice of reading material. When Palin became elusive and didn’t answer, Couric gently re-posed the question, but when Palin waffled again, Couric let it slide, leaving the Palin interview on  ambiguous ground. For Palin supporters, she answered evasively because she was being unfairly questioned; for  Palin critics, she just looked like an illiterate idiot.  Truly, no offense to Katie Couric or her interviewing style–it’s part of the American system. British presenters, on the other hand, generally call a spade a spade, and are more than willing to press guests to admit the same. Presenters in Britain  don’t shy away from offending their guests and don’t appear to kowtow for fear of losing future interview opportunities or corporate sponsorships. The world could be a very different place if the US media actually took off their kid gloves and asked genuine questions,rather than purporting to “keep them honest,” and I would be delighted to hear Mrs. Palin be interviewed by  John Humphrys.

Though Radio4 is generally very good about countering each argument presented, the other day, I was sorely let down. Whilst doing my ritual morning chores; making ab pot of coffee, boiling an egg,  folding a pair of socks, one of the guests began touting the need for legislation that would require images which have been digitally retouched to be labeled accordingly. The guest’s argument was that today’s media is filled with images of impossibly beautiful people, and that the psychological effects of these images on society, particularly on women and girls, warranted the proposed labeling.

The guest was unchallenged, and as far as I can remember, the presenters adopted a more American-style approach. They listened politely, didn’t present a counter-point, and then moved onto the next topic of the day. Though I have tried repeatedly to find the actual interview on Play it Again, I haven’t been able to hunt it down. That said, I have since found that the guest is not alone in her effort to legislate commercial imagery.  Recently in Parliament, a similar debate took place and in France last December, a politician there introduced  legislation concerning the disclosure of photo retouching, It appears the anti-Photoshop is alive and well in Europe.

While listening to the guest on Radio4, I couldn’t help but think that though she was raising a genuine concern, what she didn’t acknowledge and what the presenters failed to point out, is that a significant portion of the population want  commercial images (and frequently even personal ones) to be digitally enhanced. Having spent years now photographing people for portraits, adverts and magazines,  I have a good understanding of people’s expectations for a commercial shot–people want look how they feel they look, and generally speaking, true-to-form reality isn’t important.

People who commission a professional photographer expect beautiful lighting, attentive styling and of equal importance–artful retouching of the final product before it goes public. The resulting  image  will be used to promote a product or campaign or in the case of portraits, the personal brand of the subject. People want all the bells and whistles of a retouched photo, but they simply do not want others to know the full truth.  In fact, I would even put my neck out to say that the subjects themselves don’t want the truth. They want an image that makes them look younger, fresher, and more in command than what they see in the mirror.

I believe I’m safe to say that people’s desire to look better than they really do  goes as far back as  Egyptian hieroglyphics, Greek Kouros, or Michelangelo paintings. Can you imagine Mona Lisa with a zit on her forehead? True, these examples are works of art, but the argument that photography should always depict reality is complete nonsense. Commercial photography, by its very nature, is the business of creating an image or brand through photography, and tinkering with photos has been part photography since the beginning of the genre itself.

The camera, film or digits, light and shadows create the image foundation. Developing, post-production and printing are instrumental to creating the final image. Manipulating photographic reality has been integral to creating many of the most beautiful photographs. Starting with the right aperture and shutter speed to  cropping an image to using the  most advanced Photoshop techniques, commercial images are altered.

One of my photography instructors, Karlan Tapp, worked as  Ansel Adams’ assistant. Karlan  shared with our class that Adam’s development process  was like painting a picture. He would spend hours tweaking the process to achieve the precise results he wanted. Perhaps clouds needed to be a bit stronger in a landscape photograph , he would burn in the detail. Maybe the portions of the image needed to be lightened–so  a bit of dodging. Each of the final images was carefully crafted to achieve the final, glorious results.

When I first started hand-processing  black and white photos in the dark room, I too learned to rely upon these key steps in the printing process. As I’m a people photographer, however, I was intent on learning ways to flatter my subjects. Good lighting and proper positioning may form the foundation of a powerful image,  but these are not enough. People demand more from a commercial photographer. Whether it’s smoother skin, getting rid of eye bags or diminishing wrinkles, people want the full treatment from the commerial pro.

I first became aware of photo retouching  when I was seventeen. I’d had my senior portrait done and after selecting the final image from the set of proofs, the photographer Phil Revoir asked me if there was anything I wanted done to the final image. Did I want whiter teeth, brighter eyes or better skin? I was dismayed! I had no clue that this was possible. Without hesitation, I asked if he could make the scar that is  smack-dab in the middle of my forehead less pronounced. He offered to get rid of it completely, but that was a bit beyond reality for my tastes; lessening it was enough for me. When the final photos were delivered,  my scar was less in tact, and I was delighted.

Portrait photography became one of my forte’s during photo school. Using my 4×5 camera, I’d burn through sheets of Polaroids and black and white negatives to get the exact shot. Once taken, I would then set out to create the perfect print. Dodging and burning were of course very handy tricks in the printing process, but advanced retouching techniques to smooth skin or reducing bags under eyes eluded me.

One of the first techniques I tried was using cellophane during the printing process. Typically from a pack of cigarettes and  affixed to a long wire, the cellophane  helped blur the light hitting the photographic paper when waved under the enlarger.  The result was smoother skin in the areas of concern, but it was a very time consuming process, for each print had to be made the same way, each time. I had to write down how many seconds each area needed work on and needed to execute the same precision with for every print made. I found this a time-consuming process, particularly when more than one print was required. I asked one of my teachers,  a skilled portrait photographer  Gary Jentoft,  for his retouching tips. Gary had worked in Seattle and LA for many years, and had even assisted one of my heroes George Hurrell. Hurrell was one of Hollywood’s photographic giants. He was the head photographer at MGM in the 1930′s and remains the  father of  glamour photography. Hurrel’s techniques  both behind the camera and within the darkroom were instrumental in  creating the look of many of Hollywood’s most lasting stars.

Hurrell’s retouching skills were far beyond my rudimentary cigarette wrapper. Negatives were frequently painted with lead paint, he had a special machine to pin prick certain areas of negatives, and endless hours were spent to produce the gods and goddesses of Hollywood. I came across this fantastic example of a portrait Hurrell did of Joan Crawford (of course) from the 1930′s.  All of this done without the help of Photoshop. Simply amazing.

The concept of creating an image through retouching became a hot topic amongst my photo school classmates. There was one camp that was completely against retouching images. “Keep them natural” was their mantra. Though there is a  definite time and place for photos au naturale, I recognized quite quickly that a large segment of the population wanted their photos enhanced, and  I became confident with retouching final images. Yes, a commercial image needs a rock solid foundation that should be present at the click of the shutter, but it is post-production work that transforms a viable image into a commercial product meeting the needs of the client and their visual brand.

In the mid-1990′s I worked for Adobe Systems in Seattle, and it was there where I first came across Photoshop. While chatting with Tina Carter, one of Adobe’s tech support specialists, I learned some Photoshop basics and even more importantly, how the tool was used across the globe.  Photoshop brought the techniques of Hurrell and Ansel Adams to the masses by way of the personal computer–sort of a great photo equalizer. An expert in digital imagery, Tina had even been called in as an expert witness to testify about the veracity of an image during a court case. Working for Adobe, though I had the  opportunity to learn the software, it wasn’t until photo school years later that I really learned how to use it.

Between my first and second year of photo school,  I spent a month learning the basics of  Photoshop. I picked up a book by Scott Kelby and set to work editing the faces and bodies of my friends and family. It brought me back to my childhood when I saw an episode of Fantasy Island and first learned about plastic surgery. A blind plastic surgeon came to the island to regain his sight in order to see the woman of his dreams once more. The woman, probably played by Barbi Benton or Audrey Landers,  had been created by the surgeon to meet his specifications, and for a brief time, I wanted to become a plastic surgeon. That dream became scuppered when I realized I get sick to my stomach at the sight of blood, so becoming skilled in Photoshop was a very viable alternative.

Retouching photos is  a regular part of my routine and varies based upon client expectations. Usually it is to reduce bags and wrinkles, remove spots, and whiten teeth. At times I’ve had to remove chins (that’s tough!), shed some weight, enhance boobs and fix hair. I’ve made people younger, older, lighter and darker. At first I thought it might just be a gender thing, but quickly learned that clients–irrespective of gender–want varying degrees of the Hollywood touch, and most importantly, they don’t want to know about it, nor do they want others to know its been done. About two months ago, the Conservative party here in Britain launched a campaign with David Cameron’s face emblazoned across billboards everywhere. In looking at the photograph, it’s fairly clear that it has had  some work on it. Cameron received quite a bit of ribbing about the photo, but was perfectly happy to deny any knowledge of image tampering.

So what is the alternative? Clearly I am a proponent of retouching. It is integral to commercially viable photos for adverts and magazines. We are a society that places a great deal of emphasis upon image, but this is not new to our modern society. History is filled with people seeking perfection, we  just happen to have more people who have a great deal more  access to image-tweaking tools. Photoshop has given image editing capabilities to the masses, and while the proponents of retouching disclaimers do have a genuine concern, is their concern on par with society’s need for a bit of denial. There is a certain comfort in ignoring the cutting truth that none of us is perfect, all of us are flawed and each of us is getting older. A commercial image–whether of a beautiful woman, a sexy man or a great shot of ourselves–that has been retouched well, can inspire and make us smile. Do people really want a disclaimer to burst that bubble?

In early 2003 while visiting my friend Maurice in Amsterdam, I met his boyfriend Jim, an American soldier stationed in Europe, either in Cypress or Crete or Corsica–a Mediterranean island starting with a C. Lee had come with me; it was our first trip together! The four of us met up at The Ghetto, a quirky bar in a seedy neighborhood (also the home to my favorite cat in Amsterdam, a white Angora named Elvis), Jim gave Lee and me each a t-shirt with the word NAVY emblazoned across it. One was blue with yellow letters, the other was gray with black letters. They were great, albeit a bit butch for my day-to-day active-wear.

As the years passed, Maurice and Jim went their separate ways and the NAVY t-shirts found their way into the “Sleeping/Running Shirt” drawer. We all have that drawer, or something like it. T-shirts from tradeshows, marketing campaigns, misguided friends, silly purchases. Perfectly functional for certain purposes, but not something I could actually wear out of the house. Invariably the size is wrong too. For some reason, all t-shirts that I have from the US are mumus on me. They might say medium, but they ain’t no medium.

Making it into sleeping/running drawer is of course an obstacle in its own right. Shirts have to meet strict criteria: they must be 100% cotton, they must be soft to the touch, they need to be a comfortable weight and they above all need to be versatile enough to be worn either when sleeping or when running–hence the name of the drawer.

The Navy shirts now live in this drawer along with an assortment of others. A red one with a character from Southpark that some friend gave me years ago. It has holes under the armpits, and 0the character–whom I don’t know at all, is peeling off the front. It is bleach stained and tatty, but still is comfortable and consequently hasn’t been chucked out. There is the Bulk Tank Betters t-shirt from my brother Tom. It’s the perfect cross-training shirt. I sleep really well in it, and it’s the perfect weight for a six mile run. There are a couple of Manhunt t-shirts advertising a hookup site, an Ottertail Lake Beach Club shirt and the a couple of begrudgingly retired shirts–ones that I still really love, but they are too far gone to wear out in public. I could go on, but it’s probably familiar territory for each of us.

When lunch rolled round today, I decided to take a run. I grabbed the top t-shirt in the drawer, my gray Navy shirt. The thought of being mistaken for a navy man fleetingly crossed my mind. Short cropped

hair, generally fit, suppose I could be mistaken for a soldier. Of course if anyone stopped to ask me directions, they’d probably rule out the soldier bit and come to the logical conclusion I was just a guy with a Navy t-shirt. I stepped outside my door and was off.

I ran up Mitcham Lane, and at the pub, I turned left on Thrale Road. Up until a few weeks ago, the pub had been called the Samuel Johnson after the author of the first English dictionary. Apparently Dr. Johnson had spent a great deal of time at Streatham Park, the country estate which once graced the area. When looking at the endless Victorian sprawl, it’s hard to imagine it was once rolling fields of the English countryside.

Thrale Road marks a critical point in my run–it takes me from the developed streets onto Tooting Common, one of south London’s big open green spaces. When I reach the park, I’ve gone a full mile and have a good idea whether the day’s run is going to be smooth or not.

Today I was in THE zone. Great pace, perfect temperature and sunshine. I was just about to the Common when I came up behind two students ambling on the sidewalk enjoying the afternoon. As I moved to the right to pass them, they heard me approach, split down the middle to let me pass through. Their actions broke my concentration and jarred me a bit. I’m sort of like a beagle–can only do one thing at a time. As I ran between them, one of them asked, “Are you going? Are you going for it?” Thinking he meant was I really going for a great run in the park, I replied, “Yeah!” They cheered. I thought it was odd that two young guys would cheer a middle-aged runner, but then the second guy yelled, “Don’t kill any civilians!”

Wait. Don’t kill any civilians? Then it dawned on me: Navy t-shirt, running guy trying to stay in shape–logical conclusion: must be preparing to go to the Middle East. I was several paces ahead of them when I realized what they had actually said, and how misleading my initial response had been. The question at that moment was quite simple–how should I reply to “Don’t kill any civilians!”? Ignore the guys? They were friendly, so that wouldn’t do. Stop in my tracks, turn around and explain that actually I was opposed to the US-lead invasion of Iraq and was wearing a sleeping/ running t-shirt that the closeted ex-boyfriend of one of my friends had given me? That would just be too involved (and my heart rate would fall out of the fat-burning zone). Instead, I simply looked over my shoulder, smiled and gave them a thumbs up. They cheered and I continued on my path.

A lie. An omission of the truth, but a lie nontheless. OK, perhaps that is a bit harsh. It happened so quickly, they were two complete strangers asking me an unexpected question and I couldn’t be asked to really get to the truth of it all. Expedience was the key. When I got home and switched on the news, Lord Goldsmith was testifying at the Chilcot Iraq war inquiry. Goldsmith was the UK’s attorney general who is now famous for changing his mind on the legality of the Iraq invasion in the days leading up to the invasion.

Listening to Goldsmith’s testimony, I couldn’t help but wonder what his reaction would have been if two youths on the street had directed him not to kill any civilians. Would he have ignored them or would he have given them a thumbs up? The UK is undergoing tremendous effort to unveil the truth of the Iraq war. I fear, however, that the truth will never be known, outside a handful of people. The world’s only remaining superpower (at this point) and previous former sun-never-setting colonial power remain untouchable. Did the powers that be threaten Lord Goldsmith? Did they bribe him? We will never know. My Navy t-shirt ordeal is but a grain of sand.