Mark Weeks Photojournal

When I first started my photography business, I got a phone call from my sister Heather. She and I are only three years apart and without fail, we tend to offer a wide range of unsolicited advice to each other. Whether from how we wear our hair, how we should vote or basic commentary on conversation we have had with other siblings. Neither  of us shys away from sharing our points of view on each other’s lives.
“Mark, you know what you need to photograph?” “What’s that Heather?” “Kids and Pets. People pay big money for pictures of their kids and animals. Heck, I’d pay you to take pictures of Jakers [her black lab].”

As with most of our constructive discussions, I listened with my usual patience and then dismissed the conversation shortly thereafter. I photograph people, not animals, and I prefer adults over children. The crux of her message, however, was neatly planted in my brain.

It’s not that I dislike animals, I am actually a big fan of furry critters. When I was a kid, we had a bunch of pets. At the top of the food chain were our cats and dogs. We also had a few incidental pets–the occasional hamster, countless goldfish and a collection of hermit crabs.

My favorite pet was Tinker, an all white cat. We got him when I was four, and he lived to be eighteen. Though we got him off of a farm, his pure white coat made him oh so uptown. Originally we named her Tinkerbell, but when we found out that she was  a he, we shortened his name to Tinker. I recall being slightly jarred at Tinkers seemingly casual gender reassignment, but my mom put my mind at ease, “He’ll never know.”

Although my siblings might have a different opinion on the matter, Tinker was effectively my cat. Sue had a silky terrier called Cherish. Tom got a dog named Nya. Heather had a dog called Bridget (aka Bird Shit), and Tinker and I just bonded. Though I do enjoy dogs, it was from very early on that I knew I was a cat person.
Our parents were pretty easy going about having pets around, though my Dad insisted that they sleep in our laundry room. He claimed that if they were allowed to sleep out and about in the house, they would poop everywhere. I found this hard to believe, as each pet was already house trained, so I would regularly defy my folks and sneak Tinker into my room to sleep by my side. My mom always knew what I’d been up to by the white cat hair left on my bedspread.

Though Tink’s white coat was beautiful, it was his Achilles heel. One snowy Minnesota winter, my neighbor accidentally hit him with their snowmobile. They hadn’t seen him because everything was white, and it wasn’t until later that they confessed what had happened. Tinker had his hind leg amputated and over the course of years became affectionately nicknamed Tripod. Until his death, Tinker maintained a phantom hind leg. This was demonstrated when you would scratch him behind his ear. His hind stump would spring into high gear and appear to be scratching away. At first it was really surreal for us, then it became sort of a parlor game, and then just part of life with Tinker.

Tinker tolerated our dogs. Bridget was a cross between a miniature poodle and a Chihuahua, a classic combination. She was slightly smaller than Tinker and was under Tinker’s rule. No matter how much we brushed her, Bridget’s fur became a matted mess. Frequently we’d find Bridget pinned to the ground with Tinker cleaning her fur (clear indication of the cleaner species…) Bridget was also quite noted for yapping at anything and everything, and she loved to dash between your feet to get out of the house. Once or twice a week we’d play the game of chase Bridget, and she always won. The week of my grandmother’s funeral, my cousin Jeff was staying with us, and Bridget got out on him. He ran block after block in his bare feet and boxer shorts trying to catch her. Finally, about a half-mile from our home, she stopped and let him pick her up. Out of breath and understandably irritated, he made his way back to our place with the dog under arm.
It wasn’t until after grandma’s funeral that we told him that we’d long since tired of chasing after Bridget, and if she did get out, either she’d return when she was ready, or the pound would call to let us know they had picked her up. Jeff despised Bridget from that moment forward. We always threatened to make a puzzle from a photo of Bridget and give it to Jeff, a true momento.

Nya was my brother’s dog. Tom bought her on the sly while we were on a family vacation “Up North” (Minnesotan vernacular for the part of Minnesota north of St. Cloud.) He smuggled her home by hiding her in his jacket. He managed to keep her hidden from my parents until we were well beyond the point of no return; then he revealed the hidden puppy. I wasn’t privy to the subsequent conversation between my parents and Tom, but the net result was another dog had been added to our clan.
Nya was a golden retriever-Irish setter mix, and was a real looker. Tom would take her out cruising in his 1968 suped-up Mustang as she was the perfect chick magnet, “what an adorable little puppy!” and then he’d score. I got to take Nya for walks, and regularly run with her.

Bridget and Nya got along well enough. They would run around together, but fortunately for us, Nya didn’t pick up Bridget’s bad habits. A big dog running wild was more than we could really handle. Tinker, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the ever-growing menace and would hiss at Nya at any opportunity. I once found a cat claw firmly embedded in Nya’s nose. I figured it hadn’t been a pretty match. Nya avoided Tinker from that point forward.

When I got my first SLR, I spent countless rolls of film photographing our pets. Tinker and Nya were my inspiration, Bridget not so much. Both Tinker and Nya were true posers. If you asked me, those two understood that I was capturing their beauty for posterity.
Though my sister Heather and I haven’t lived together for years, it’s highly likely the innumerable shots of our pets prompted her proposed career path.

Years later when I was in photography school, one of my instructors gave us the assignment to photograph a pet.  Our cat Oberon was naturally my first choice. Recalling how easy it had been with Tinker and Nya, I set out to photograph Obie with the same zeal. Oberon, however, was having none of it. He didn’t like the lights, he wanted to know what my lens was all about, and he ultimately lost patience after the second shutter click, and then just walked off the table and hid under the bed. The shoot was done. The next day in class we unveiled our results. I cringed as my cat “portrait”  compared to the many masterpieces  my classmates had created.  My instructor gently suggested that pets was not my bag. It was shortly after this debacle that Heather imparted her wisdom, and still stinging from my recent attempt, I readily declined.
I became haunted by a vision of an endless line of  Maltese puppies, each with pink ribbons in their hair parading through my studio and cuddling up in a miniature wicker basket. Hallmark anyone? No, pet photography would not be my bag.

Not long after photo school, one of my best (human) clients commissioned me to photograph his dog, a West Highland terrier. He wanted a white on white portrait of his dog that would be made into an acrylic print. I cringed inside, recalling my sister’s wisdom. As my client had been a really good guy to work with, and as we needed to make rent for the month, I convinced myself it sounded like a cool assignment and agreed to it.

We shot at Daylight Studio in Seattle, and truth be told, it was a lot of fun.  The key, I learned quite quickly, was to have a pet handler. No more one-on-one shoots with my ever obedient Tinker and Nya, this was the real world of commercial pet portraits and to maintain the attention of a spaniel, you had to have the right tricks up your sleeve. Squeakers, bones, water, food, treats and of course the occasional whistle can grip the attention of an animal for just long enough to get the desired shot. It’s sort of like photographing a very, very, busy businessman–if you don’t have it in two frames, forget it. His mind has turned to the next item on his agenda.

I met Laura Graham at my breakfast networking meeting in Mayfair. Laura owns a stationary and printing company called G.G. Print. Shortly after we first met, she approached me to photograph her dog, Mr. Darcy, a King Charles Spaniel. She wanted to use Mr. Darcy for her in-office signage, and also wanted a sweet  portrait of her and Mr. Darcy. Again, Heather’s comments ran through my head. This time, however, I was much better prepared. We were shooting at Laura’s place, so Mr. Darcy would be more at home. We agreed to the props and the squeaky toys beforehand, and once everything was set up, we popped Mr. Darcy into the frame.

We spent a couple of hours getting the right shots of Mr. Darcy.  He wasn’t happy on the table, but liked his basket. He was great on his own and with Laura, but when paper products were added, he must have felt a bit cheapened and began to squirm. A little kibble on the on a pantone card seemed to do the trick. Working quickly, with several finger clicks and squeaky toys, we secured the final shots.

Post-production on dogs is way better than humans, to be sure. Yes, you need to ensure their fur is all smooth and silky looking, but a dog will never complain about bags under his or her eyes and rarely, and I’ve never been asked to make a dog thinner.

It’s been a number of years since that conversation with my sister. Interestingly enough, at one of my portfolio reviews, a prospective client pointed out that I had a penchant for photographing dogs within my images. They pointed out three shots within my book that had dogs in them. I guess I can thank Heather for that.