If you haven’t run out to your local airport bookstore to pick up this month’s issue of R&T… well, what can I say. I’m hurt. But it’s okay.
You can now read the NASA NP01 prototype test online as well. To do so is to miss the printed-paper beauty of the photography, done by the combination of Robert Kerian and Milk, his mononymous muse/assistant. I still remember the day I met Milk.
“What’s your name?” I inquired.
“Milk,” she responded.
“Milk. Well. How do you spell that?” Behind me, I could hear Matt Farah spitting his food into his hand. Milk is a very placid young woman. Truth is that I’m jealous of Kerian, and all the other photographers. They all get to have assistants. Nobody questions this. When a photographer shows up at an auto-journo thing, he brings an assistant. It is widely understood that a photographer needs an assistant to change lenses and carry boxes and be the target of emotional, sometimes merging into physical, abuse. Without an assistant, a photographer cannot fully express his creative self.
Do I get an assistant? Haha fuck no. Even when I pay for an assistant out of my own pocket, I get emails like this from manufacturers:
Thanks Jack. We need to talk about the women you’ve been bringing to these events… They’ve been seen at the evening hospitality suites, and the two women who accompanied you at Palm Beach did attempt to join our private lunch.
THEY ATTEMPTED TO JOIN THE PRIVATE LUNCH. No fucking shame, these assistants. But Milk gets to come to the private lunch. You bet she does. Tell you what. I’m going to buy one of those extra lens things you put on your cameraphone. Then I, too, will be a photographer. And I’ll have my own assistant. Feel free to apply in the comment section. I’m accepting qualified female applicants between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three. A warning, however: no matter what your name is now, I’m changing it to “Megatron”.
Megatron should look like Gina Carino. She should never be without a pair of Ray-Ban’s, and a small earpiece. Loose fitting but hip hugging, comfortable Levi’s, only Atari and Star Wars T-shirts, and Chuck Taylor low quarter shoes. No one is allowed to hand you anything directly, like Tony Stark. They all have to hand it to Megatron.
Randomly, three times a year, she will beat the holy hell out of someone who violates one of the rules. Or doesn’it, she didn’t like him. Just to keep everyone slightly afraid of her
She always has a flask.
If you can find this person, I’ll hire her.
“Hire”? Is that the word they’re using these days?
“…the two women who accompanied you at Palm Beach did attempt to join our private lunch.”
That’s almost as good as “Once, wet children made it into the restaurant’s lobby and took mints.”
I remember that one.
Whenever I need to get someone credentialed to an auto show, their default position is “photographic assistant”. Never gets questioned. If you say “writer”, the credentialing committee will want to see work product.
Truth is that pro photographers have to lug around a lot of heavy things. Hell, I don’t consider myself a photographer, just a point ‘n shoot guy, but between the two Canons in my still photo 3D rig, my JVC 3D camcorder, multiple sets of batteries for the cameras, and a tripod, the bag does get heavy.
You rich people have such irritating problems .
=8-) .
-Nate
Rich people have problems. Wealthy people do not. Even mortality shall be conquered, or we’ll die trying.
Shaq is rich, the white man that signs his checks is wealthy.
Love that song, just to let you know someone got it.
“haha fuck no”
is as quotable as the familiar “…because racecar” coined by a certain so-and-so and used ad nauseam by the semi-litterate SJW/”enthusiast” set, but is imbued with the subtlety/irony one can only achieve when simultaneously embracing and skewering the slow, sad death of the English language being propagated by the generation vulgaris.