"I work in a house"

This story has been dragged from the "awkward moments" folder deep in the recesses of my brain, where it had been sitting alongside such events as "the day I puked all over my friend's desk in front of my entire pre-cal class" and "the day a bird shit on my head while I was riding my bike back to my dorm and I nearly fell off into the grass" because I got an unexpected Facebook friend request. I suppose those stories could be told in more detail sometime, since I've just thought of them again.  I guess that gives you something to look forward to.

Anyhoo, shortly after I started my job last year, it was decided that I needed to have my photo taken for the firm website.  This was exciting to me because it meant I had (sort of) made it.  There have been a few downsides since my picture was posted, such as clients telling me they liked my hair blonder like the picture or that I look "skinnier" on the website.  Thanks for that.  But, it was (and still is) exciting to have my professional profile posted.  I got a phone call one day from the PR lady at the firm giving me the name and number of a photographer to call and set up an appointment.  In fairness to her, she probably had no idea what she had set me up with, because when I later told her she was surprised and felt slightly bad.  I call the number, and a man answers with "---- photo-graphy, how can I help you?"  (I'm not going to name the actual company).  The mispronunciation of the word 'photography' throws me off a little bit, but I power through.  I tell him that I got his number to set up a business head shot for my company website.  He inhales sharply and then trills "oh how wonderful!" and then asks when I'm available.  I list off several available times, and we settle on 10:30am, I believe on a Wednesday.  As I'm about to hang up he offers this piece of advice- "when you try to find it, don't be surprised that I work in a house.  Just ring the doorbell."

I'm a little alarmed because I'm not sure of the logistics of setting up a photo studio in a house, particularly the type I'm imagining based on the address, but I decide to move along.

The day arrives, and after a quick peek at Google maps I'm even more concerned about what I'm going to uncover.  I leave the office with a plea to my coworker Sarah that if I don't return within an hour, she needed to call the police because I had probably been abducted and/or sold into some sort of mid-west sex trade.  I follow my GPS to the address and end up in an older neighborhood lined with mid-70s era duplexes.  I find the address on the mailbox and apprehensively ring the doorbell.  A breathless man answers the door and ushers me inside.


He leads me through the house to his studio...in the garage.  I understand that up-and-comers have to do whatever they can to make it, and I completely respect that.  But the set-up is a little odd.    He has bed sheets draped from the ceiling and plastic shelves lining the walls that are filled with random stuffed animals, hats, scarves, and other props.  As he's setting up his camera, he asks me if we'll be "experimenting" with different outfits or props or makeup.  I just stare at him until I realize he's not kidding.

"Um, no, this is just a business shot for a website, so just your basic portrait is good."  I can see him deflate as I'm speaking.  Despite this instruction, he proceeds to take 100+ shots of me in various poses; from my left, from my right, head tilted back slightly, head tilted slightly to the right, from above (extremely glamour-shot-esque), me looking down into the camera.  He is very into this whole process, and despite how awkward it is that I'm being posed in a garage lined with bedsheets, I can sort of see how he'll be successful some day because he really seems to enjoy what he's doing.

After what feels like hours, he decides he's done, and asks (almost hopefully) if I have any other photo ideas.  I say no, thank him for his time, and leave.  Four weeks later I had to review those 100+ proofs to pick the one I wanted on the website.  Wading through several pictures that looked the exact same, and some that looked like I needed to be wearing bright blue eye shadow and red lipstick to make sense, was tedious.  But, I selected 3 that I really liked.  The picture that made the website was not one of the three.  Sigh.  But, I did make it, despite the incredibly awkward road I took to get there.

The Facebook friend request was from the awkward turtle photographer.  Nearly a year after he took my picture.  I haven't spoken to him since.  Needless to say, I politely declined.  And by politely declined, I mean I clicked the button indicating "hell no."