The Dream Gig
I remember the day was calm. We grabbed a quick bite at a sushi place not far from my Uncle’s house and piled all my camera gear in her crossover. It was the first time a client had bought me sushi; a pleasant perk. We had plenty of daylight left and no specific shot list, so time wasn’t an issue, but I immediately was aware that Claire, like me, was a person who believed in alacrity for the sake of making the most of a sunny day. The drive was a brief jaunt of a couple hours, enough time to talk about writing, families, fishing, archery, and learn each other’s beer profiles. We went east into Washingtonian rivers and stopped at a small town hardware store.
“They always know the best spots” I was assured. I went in with her and in a brief few seconds, Claire caught the eye of a clerk. I could tell he recognized her. They exchanged familiarities and caught up on last week’s bounty. He was possibly the kindest stranger I’ve ever met. Something tangible about him politely explained that his life was one of actual peace; the kind that makes someone entirely content. I’d soon learn why. I pestered him about lighting and scenes, Claire about bends and bait. He sent us on our way with all the answers we wanted. He couldn’t have been older than a couple years younger than me, but I got in the car feeling like I was bestowed some sage experience from someone truly wise.
A short drive later we pulled up into a meadow we were nearly certain we weren’t allowed to park in. Warm blackberries aromatically struck us while we patiently waited for a neighbor or crotchety property owner to rush up to our car doors, shotgun in hand. I looked around. I imagined banjos playing. A couple cars passed, none to haggle us. Like a couple of kids who got away with something, we traded a glance and a shrug to say “I guess we can park here.” I turned on my camera and tweaked the picture profile. I was on the clock now. We unloaded a long fly rod, some waders, and a cooler full of ingestible companions. Not a bad day at the office.
I remember watching her bait the rod. She had intention with her small adjustments, explaining to me, a mere pedestrian, how to mend a line, where the fish were likely hiding, and how she wanted to be clear she barely knew what she was doing. Two truths and a lie. I cinched my Chacos, pulled my phone out of my pocket and set it on the cooler, then tugged on my trusty camera strap. It hadn’t failed me before, but failing me on a river wasn’t exactly a gambling matter for me. She tossed a fly in from the bank a few times, then we waded in.
I was back home for moments. We would be slowly stepping on the cobblestones in the river, water to my knees, camera hopefully securely strapped around my neck, and I would remember my Northern California boyhood summers, splashing into a brook with my brother and then, for hours, slow and silent, walking upstream slowly enough to not ripple the water we were looking through and quiet enough not to startle the crawdads we were looking for. The same rules of pursuit applied here. We waded through a few rivers, sometimes silent, sometimes less so, discussing her business, dinner plans, music, and occasionally even the task at hand. It was an awesome day to be a dude with a camera.
I watch my videos a bit differently than I hope you do. I see them for what they are to me; mechanisms. I look for auditory slips, focus pulls, color grading incongruences, stabilization warps, and plot inconsistencies. I understand no piece of work is ever finished, but I try to brush the asymptote of done as often as possible. Some videos are work, simply that, and I know that. Some videos, like this one, are less platonic, more near to me. Some videos bring me to a time I savored. When I watch this one, I remember the day was calm.
