Monday, July 03, 2006

Yesterday, according to Yours Truly and who else but, was declared by same to be Diane Arbus Day for everywhere there were characters doing their personal things that were circus-curious yet somehow slightly universal.
A woman who outwardly appeared to have lived the good/hard life, maybe in her late 50s, on a beat-to-shit bicycle, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Eyes cast down.
Man in his 70s with very wide hips, dressed in khakis, white shirt, dark shoes, standing on a fairly busy Middling City streetcorner timing something, his black watch (assumedly with one of those sporting features) in his palm, his eyes glancing up anxiously every few seconds.
A thin woman running across a street in four-inch pumps, wearing a thin trenchcoat, a diamond stud in her nose. She is in a hurry. It seems like she's wearing nothing under the trenchcoat but that just cannot be verified by YT.
Some days give up the visual treats. Some do not.
One of the most interesting happenstances this past weekend featured YT ambling about a very strange 30s-era building out in the MC exurbs, whilst shooting a wedding of very young people. It was one of those weddings which has guests so young that some have braces, some teen acne, and a glance around the room confusingly computes as prom.
So the reception is packed into a dining room, low ceiling, very warm in the temp.
The middle area is a bar and some guests were intently following the latest match-up in the World Cup.
In a further room was what was the newest addition, the rumpus room with bad decorating of Home Depot proportions, some mirrors on one wall to indicate this is a party room that may or may not feature a dance floor. There is a patch of wood squares, dance floor.
On this dance floor YT chanced upon about two dozen young Christian women, overflow guests sitting in the far reaches, doing a Christian cheer, a synchronized dance with arm gestures, the vociferousness that screams ChEeR.
Instantly the thought This is why I love my job sprung into the forefront of the frontal lobal region.
Those, if You will, Diane Arbus moments.
I ate with this group of women, all students at Franciscan College in OH, and asked armloads of questions about their cheer, their campus, why they are all divvied up into what they called Households. Not a sorority, but a conceptual kind of grouping, I was told.
I met a femme who is the den mom of sorts, great sense of humour, my age and who has six - count 'em - six children.
From there I had to mosey quickly along to another gig for a fam for who I shot a wedding several years ago. This occasion was anniversary numero fiftyo of the mom and dad. This photo op happened in a very mod building, an exurban seminary (I think an endangered architectural species) that nearly drove me to distraction thinking how YT would redesign it to be a bit less oppressive. It was a renewal of vows in the round, very interactive. However, Father Bunchie (as in undies all in an uncomfortable bunch) asked that I refrain (as in a hymn) from photos for a while.
Outwardly: Yes, of course.
Inwardly: Hmmph. (turn off flash, bump up ISO, shoot avail light).
As I told the fam later, during cocktails and such, I have become THAT kind of photog.
Well, in sooth, I have been this type for some long years.
Intrepid. Headstrong. Just out to tell the story.

Storied Love.

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