FEBRUARY 2012 - ISSUE 01 - Massive Magazine

35ing their way into a previouslymale-dominated world. A successfulphotojournalist has tobe highly intuitive and creativeas well as fearless. Annie Leibovitzwent on tour with the RollingStones when she was just21 years old. She decided thatif she was going to capture thenatural, fly-on-the-wall imagesshe wanted she would have todo everything the Stones did,copious amounts of drug takingand all. She ended up having togo for a stint in rehab.There is an iconic image ofMick Jagger, which I love. He isleaving the plane. Unkempt yetdapper in his top hat and shirtbuttoned as an afterthought, hisfigure cuts an imposing shapeinto the bright sky. The sunflares behind him and the plane,which is emblazoned with theStones’ juicy tongue-baringlogo. I can imagine her now.Running to be the first off theplane as soon as it landed, lookingup through the viewfinderas Jagger began descending thestairs, moving to the right justslightly to expose that dazzlingsun flare, hurriedly deciding onher exposure.Mary Ellen Mark was obsessedwith mental hospitals,and when she heard aboutthe film adaption of the novelOne Flew Over the CuckoosNest she pestered the directorto let her take the stills, sayingshe would just work for coston the low-budget production.She has said she is interested inpeople on the edges and wantsto acknowledge the existence ofthese people. This interest hasled her from heroin addicts inLondon and street kids in Seattleto prostitutes in India. Shebefriends her subjects, relaxingthem and capturing themwith an intimate eye that is stillaware of composition and light.Her photographs of children areespecially poignant; she seemsto infuse in them a perceptivenessbeyond their years.These women are passionate,with distinctive vision. A combinationof natural talent anda bold attitude that got themwhere they wanted to go. MaryEllen is now 71, Annie 62, andthey are still chasing the light.Summer means daylight savingand barbeques at the beach.I’m in Nelson at the TahunanuiBeach picnic area with my sisterand a few friends. A delightedsqueal followed by gigglescauses me to turn in the directionof two bare-chested Maoriboys, about 3 and 4, who arefooling around with the waterfountain. The way they interactis intimate and playful as theytake turns squirting each other.Their faces rapturous with thesimple joys of water, sun, andfriendship. The water from thefountain is arcing around them.I see each glossy droplet caughtin the sun for a millisecond.The summer evening causingtheir brown skin to glow burnished.I can’t help myself, andwalk over to the large extendedwhanau group also barbequing,to find the parents. “Hi there, Iwas wondering if I could takesome photos of the two boysover there?” “What for?” “Justfor myself, ha ha, um, I justsaw them and think they lookgreat. If you give me your emailI can send you some.” The boysseemed a bit confused by thepresence of me and my big lensat first, but we were soon laughingtogether as I captured theirinfectious amusement and delight,the evening sun lingering.The large square album iscovered in padded white leather.An outline of two bells in joyfulmotion is etched in the centre.It lies at the bottom of thebookcase in the lounge, with allthe other photo albums, stackupon stack of memories. Growingup, every so often I wouldslide this thick white slab out ofthe pile, sit down cross-legged,open it on my lap and slowlyabsorb each page. The photosare small squares with roundededges and a quiet softnessto them. The colour palette islimited, Mum in white, bridesmaidspale blue, Dad and thegroomsmen in navy. The tone ofthe images is a warm brown, asif they had been dipped in weaktea. I loved seeing my parents soyoung and expectant. Imaginingthe happenings of the day asI turned each page. It was onlylater when Mum told me whatreally happened, about how thecombination of not eating allday because she was so nervous,and the overbearing heatof Brisbane in December in thelong-sleeved, high-necked dressshe had borrowed to cut downon costs, caused her to faint atthe altar. It is only then thatI can see a hint of pain in heryoung smile.take photos at weddings nowI and have seen first-hand thedifference between reality andwhat the photographs capture.After months of overwhelmingplanning and the huge costs ofa modern wedding, some bridescan crumple on their big day.There was one particular weddingon a farm in the Wairarapa.The bride and groom had a oneyear-oldson. More than oneglass of bubbly was consumedby the bride before the ceremonyand then during the ceremonythe bride and groom had totake turns drinking scotch outof a silver goblet (somethingto do with the groom’s Scottishancestry). The bride was noticeablytipsy by the end of the ceremonyand ended up droppingher baby on the ground rightbefore the family photos. Thatwas interesting.We began the bridal partyshoot, but as she started soberingup slightly, the bride wasfast getting over it. I had myheart set on taking photos by anancient, rusty Bedford truck Ihad found slouched in a nearbypaddock earlier, and I was determinedon getting my laggingtroupes to it. “It will be beautiful,you will be so glad we wentthere, it’s not that far away!” Isaid to them. Actually, it waskind of far away, but I had alreadyframed up the imagesin my mind and the light wasgetting just right. Luckily forme, the grumbling bride, sorefootedbridesmaids, and unenthusedgroomsmen also fell inlove with the adorable old truckwhen we finally got there. Anabandoned relic encrusted inlichen and rust, the B from Bedfordhad clumsily fallen overon its side. I directed the bridalparty to climb onto the backof the truck and they laughedtogether like a gaggle of teenagersoff to a barn dance circa1950. The sun was lowering andthe light softly washed over thescene. The groom bent down tokiss his new wife as their edgesglimmered and fused together.