Lights, Camera...Strobes

A lighting setup at Florida A&M University for a series on their famous marching band.

A lighting setup at Florida A&M University for a series on their famous marching band.

Introducing lights into a photo is something that terrifies and mystifies many photographers, especially young ones who haven’t spent much time using them.

When I first began this journey a decade ago, I had literally never seen a strobe.

I met Bill Frakes in the summer of 2007. I was set to take a lighting class at the University of Florida that fall, but at the time knew next to nothing about lighting setups or photography in general.

Learning the equipment has been a process, as evidenced here. In fairness, getting under the Elinchrome Octabox is sometimes the easiest way for me to break it down, even though it looks ridiculous.

It was fitting that my second shoot with Bill was a cover for Sports Illustrated for Kids of Philadelphia Eagles running back Bryan Westbrook in his Maryland home.

We flew to Washington, DC, on the first flight of the morning and returned on the last flight of the evening. It wasn’t just my first chance to see a professional lighting setup, it was my first taste of the life on the road with Bill.

There are quite a few things I’ve learned about Bill Frakes in my decade of working with him. One is that he has favorite places all over the world. One of those favorite places is Politics and Prose, an independently owned bookstore in Washington, DC. As soon as we landed and gathered all of our equipment, we went straight to the book store.

The spot had two purposes. First and foremost, Bill wanted to shop for books. But secondly, it is where we met up with John Healy, another more experienced photography assistant. Bill wanted me to learn from Healy; to watch and ask questions about the lighting setup.

When we arrived at Westbrook’s house he welcomed us inside and showed us a room he hoped was big enough for all of our equipment. I watched as Frakes and Healy set up the background and all the lights. I had never seen anything quite like it. I knew what a strobe was, but had never seen anyone actually use one before.

Now, a white seamless backdrop with a seven light setup seems simple, but back then it was impossibly complicated. Suddenly all of those magazines covers I had seen in the past with animated or clearly photoshopped backgrounds began to make sense.

Shooting a subject against a clean, white background allows you to lift the subject off of that background and place them on another in post production. Lighting the subject makes their image crisp with sharp edges and good definition. Where television and cinema use a green screen, photography uses white for the same effect.

Bill made a couple test shots of me and Healy to make sure the light was right before Westbrook came out. With most high profile subjects, you only get a minute or two to make a great portrait. That day, we were in his home and he had nothing he had to do other than be with us. However, as I would learn in the coming weeks, months and years, you can never be too ready to make an image.

John Healy and I on set at Bryan Westbrook's house.

When Westbrook came out in his uniform, we did two poses with him - a stiff arm and him catching a shovel pass. My favorite part of the day was throwing the shovel pass.

The cover mock-up for SI for Kids.

When I was a kid, I had two dream professions. I wanted to be an astronaut and/or a quarterback in the NFL. Throwing that shovel pass is the closest I have gotten to either.

I have now been part of countless lighting setups for covers, multimedias and galleries. Each subject is different, so each setup is, too.

Setting up for a portrait of the UConn women's basketball team in 2011.

On the flight home from DC that night, Bill left his first class seat to come sit with me in coach. He wanted to talk about the day and lighting.

“Light,” he told me, “is language in photography.”

It is how you portray mood and emotion. Where writers use verbs, photographers use light.

It’s a lesson I try to employ everyday.

 

College Towns

Under the Spanish moss of spring in Gainesville, Fl. This was taken on a shoot there in 2009 when I was still a student.

Under the Spanish moss of spring in Gainesville, Fl. This was taken on a shoot there in 2009 when I was still a student.

This has been a busy week. In the world of freelance, it's feast or famine. You're either so busy you can't keep track of what state you're in, or you have so much free time you can't keep track of what day it is.

Lately, for me, it's been feast. Luckily the busy schedule has brought me to two of my favorite college towns - Gainesville, FL, and Oxford, MS.

The trip to Gainesville was a nice change. I hadn't spent significant time in the town of my alma mater in years, and this is a truly lovely time to be in central Florida. The weather is warm, but not hot. The clouds are high and puffy. The smell of citrus blossoms is in the air. And the madness of football season is far away, replaced by the calm of baseball and softball.

It brought me back to warm Sundays as a student, sitting in the sun at the softball grounds as my friends and I burned off the remnants of Saturday night, listening to the tink ofa ball hitting a bat, the scuffle of cleats on clay, and the sweet, unmistakable aroma of orange blossoms wafting in from the grove across the street. A sure sign of spring.

Today, Bill and I will be driving to the second college town on that list - Oxford, MS - for a weekend workshop with some students. Oxford is a place I had always heard about, both as a football fan in the SEC and a student of history. But a place I didn't really start to understand until I first visited in 2008.

The always delicious Ajax Diner in Oxford, MS.

Oxford is the south in a nutshell. It's warm and slow, full of good food and good people. It's what we imagine the south to look like with it's town square and oak groves.

It's a beautiful town with a wonderful literary history. Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner, is on the University of Mississippi campus.

On the steps outside Square Books - one of America's great independent book stores - in Oxford, MS.

Also on campus is a Confederate graveyard where soldiers who died while being treated at the campus hospital are buried. As wonderful as modern Oxford is, you can't talk about the place without also talking about it's segregated past and Confederate history.

Nearly the entire student body (135 men) enlisted in the Confederate Army in 1861 after Mississippi seceded from the Union. During the Battle of Gettysburg, the University Grey's (as they were called) penetrated deep into the Union forces, but sustained 100% casualties. Every man in the unit was either killed or badly wounded. It's no wonder that their mascot for years was Colonel Reb and their symbol a Confederate flag.

Then there's the story of James Meredith, the first black man to attend the University of Mississippi. In 1962 it took 500 federal troops to enroll James Meredith at Ole Miss. There is now a statue of Meredith on campus to honor his commitment to the university and his indelible mark on history.

I met James Meredith in the elevator at Vaught-Hemingway Stadium after the Alabama vs. Ole Miss football game in 2010. He was wearing a white suit and was with a friend. He and his friend said hello to Bill and I when they saw our cameras and introduced themselves. Meredith talked to us on the short elevator ride about the beauty of the campus and the friendliness of the people.

I was shocked. James Meredith was last person in the world I expected to speak highly of Oxford and the University of Mississippi. But there he was, smiling broadly as he reminisced.

That's Oxford. The place is full of history - good and bad, depending on your perspective. It's a place of chaotic paradox, but also a place of calm beauty.

Spring Season

During a TV timeout at an Orlando Magic game. I had no idea the guy behind me was making the same face. Lucky for me, Bill Frakes is always looking for moments like this.

Over the last decade, I’ve spent many beautiful spring days inside basketball arenas. It’s the sport of the season, from the NBA to March Madness.

Basketball is fun to watch - especially this time of year - but I have to admit, I’ve never been a fan of covering it.

In fact, my least favorite part of shooting basketball is the game itself. A ball is constantly bouncing, shoes are squeaking across a shined floor, music is blaring and fans are yelling inside the echo chamber we call basketball courts. For me, the games are migraines waiting to happen.
The part I enjoy - oddly enough - is the setup; the hours and days that lead up to the games.

It starts early - sometimes an entire 48 hours before tip-off. Lights are put in place, wires are run and camera angles are decided. Sometimes negotiations with the arena or the broadcast channel are required. Sometimes the catwalks themselves - the scaffolding around the roof of every arena in America - aren’t easily accessible.

Many of the crisp, amazing shots you see from basketball games are shot on strobe. That means someone (me) has to put those strobes in place. Those strobes - along with every light and speaker - are rigged onto the catwalk of an arena. It’s a place you don’t think about unless you have to. I know I had never considered how the lighting and sound systems were hung until I had to do it myself.

Some catwalks have elevators that offload directly onto the catwalk platform. Others have steep stairs that you have to climb with the cameras, strobes and wires you need in tow. It's hard work, but hard work is something I've always enjoyed.

Once the lights and overhead angles are set, there are still plenty of other remotes to put in place. Every arena is different, and every level of play has rules about where you can and can’t put cameras.

Setting up a flash wizard tree. They're called flash wizards because it's what we use to sync all the remote cameras with the strobes in the catwalks. When a camera is fired, so are the strobes.

For the most part, there is always a camera on the side of each hoop (a post camera). Then we try to find a slightly elevated shot that has a clean look at the hoop for rebounds, layups and dunks. There are cameras under the press tables and next to benches. There are floor cameras and glass cams (cameras, literally, behind the backboard glass). And last but not least, our handheld cameras; a telephoto (either a 300mm f/2.8 or a 400mm f/2.8) and a shorter lens (a 24-70mm f/2.8 or a 24-120mm f/4) for near-court shots.

Setting up a camera under the press table. These are placed right at the 3-point arc just in case there is a game-winning, buzzer-beating shot.

This year I took a step back and am watching the NCAA tournament on TV. I find that I am not just watch the games, I look for the cameras, too.

I’ve been in just about every arena that this year’s games were played in. I know why broadcast chose the angles they did. Every arena has slightly different options, some better than others. I can see the other photographers, many of whom I know, on the floor each time a ball goes to the hoop. I can anticipate the images they will make; the ones I will see the coming days online, in the newspaper and in sports magazines.

Like a chef who can’t eat a meal without guessing the ingredients, I can’t watch an athletic event without guessing where the cameras are. A strange, but entertaining occupational habit.

 

 

 

Cover Girl

I was once on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

It was March 2016, the Florida Gators had the best men's basketball team in the south region of the NCAA, and I went with Bill to a cover shoot I hadn't planned on attending.

In the weeks leading up to the NCAA tournament, we had spent a lot of time with the Florida Gators for a multimedia on their senior leadership. 

We went to practice, class, followed them around campus, and back to their dorms and apartments. We went to dinner with them, on dates with them, and to volunteer activities around the community.

The Gators that year were a rarity in college basketball. They were led by four seniors - Scottie Wilbekin, Patric Young, Casey Prather and Will Yeguette - who had been together since day one on UF’s campus. Many of the top schools at the time - and still today - are full of “one-and-done” players; talented athletes who come to college for the mandatory one year before entering the NBA draft. But Billy Donovan and his #1 seed Gators were the opposite of that trend. Each of the four seniors had been through the highs and lows of a full college career. They had - in many ways - grown up together.

After the multimedia came out, Sports Illustrated had another assignment for Bill - a cover shoot with the Gator’s top scorer, Casey Prather.

Every year right before March Madness kicks off, Sports Illustrated does a series of regional covers highlighting the best team from each region. In 2014 the Florida Gators werethe favorite team not just in the south region, but in the nation.

The idea for the cover was to show individual players from each school surrounded by a sea of excited fans. It was a setup shot, intended to feature the fans as much as the players they cheered for.

When the assignment came in, I didn’t plan on going. We had been working a lot that spring - most of it with the Gators - and I was tired. There were plenty of students at UF who could help Bill set up the lights, including our intern at the time. 

Then, at the last minute, I decided to go along for the ride. I didn’t go as an assistant or in any official capacity. I just went as Bill’s friend and a Gator fan. We had spent so much time with the team that spring that not being part of the cover shoot seemed almost rude.

We left Jacksonville early that morning. A couple journalism students met us in Gainesville along with our friend Sara Tanner, another UF alumnae. Sara had come prepared with bags of props - pompoms, hats, foam fingers, t-shirts - anything we might need if a fan showed up under dressed.

Denver Parler, the men’s basketball sports information director at UF, met us at the O’Connell center and helped us set up. He had sent out a discreet social media blast asking students to come to the O’Dome at 1pm for a “special project” with a member of the men’s basketball team. The only problem was that it was spring break, meaning almost no students were still on campus. 

When 1pm rolled around, we were slim on students. Denver went and gathered every student intern he could find in the athletic department and told them to change into their favorite game-day gear. Still, the portrait just wasn’t quite coming together. 

Getting every student to scream, cheer, smile and yell all at the same time AND with their eyes open is no easy task. After a few lackluster frames, I put on my orange and blue, grabbed a foam finger, and headed to the center of the group. I asked Bill if he was ready and he nodded. 

I started screaming and the rest of the crowd joined, yelling and laughing. When the Elinchrome strobe popped, I stopped, waited a few seconds for the power to recycle, and started again.

After a few frames, when I thought the fans were appropriately rowdy, I jumped out of the picture and continued cheering next to Bill as he shot.

When the cover came out, I was surprised they chose a picture with me in it. Clearly, my excitement was infectious.

Looking back, I can't believe I almost passed up a chance to cheer my favorite team into March Madness with some fellow Rowdy Reptiles.

The 2017 tournament begins tonight, and you can bet I will again be cheering on the Gators as they tip off their tournament this afternoon against East Tennessee State.

Second Home

Representing my first home - Florida (go Gators) - in my second home - Nebraska. This was taken in a refurbished one-room schoolhouse in Thedford, NE, that also happened to be on an exotic animal farm - two things that don't generally co-exist, but in Nebraska, you never know.

Today I’m heading back to my second home, Nebraska.

Nebraska isn’t a place I ever imagined spending any time in. I grew up on a swamp in Florida, a quarter mile from the beach. Places like Nebraska weren’t on my radar screen as a kid. 

When I imagined traveling the world, I imagined places like Norway and China, Brazil and France. I wanted to see the northern California coast, the Rocky Mountains and the Great Lakes. Over the last decade I have visited all those places. But no place has taken my breath away quite like Nebraska.

People always ask me why I like Nebraska; what about the state keeps bringing me back? My answer is always the same - Nebraska is the most surprisingly beautiful place I’ve ever been. People don’t expect much from Nebraska - I know I didn’t - but the subtlety of the wide open spaces and endless skies is truly breath-taking.

I started spending significant time in Nebraska in 2013. That spring, Bill and I began working on a story that would eventually become one of the first videos for the Nebraska Project. The Nebraska Project itself didn't start as a concrete idea for a comprehensive web site on the state. It started as one story Bill wanted to tell - an ode to his mother, Agnes Roemmich Frakes.

Agnes was a lifelong educator, beginning her career at a one-room schoolhouse when she was 17. After she passed away in 2008, Bill found a typed copy of an unpublished story she wrote for Collier's magazine back in the 1940s on her experience as a rural school teacher.

Over the years, he had mentioned the idea of doing a video based on his mother's words, but it wasn't until we had a conversation with Kevin and Katie Morrow at an education conference that the story began to take shape. Kevin and Katie are great friends and Nebraska natives who live in O'Neill, NE.

Kevin and Katie Morrow in the tailgate of their truck on a friend's farm in Holt County, NE. That windmill with the broken blade made several appearances in our “Nebraska Skies” video.

Bill mentioned to Katie and Kevin that his mother had written a long essay on teaching in a one-room schoolhouse. He told them that he hoped to edit it down to a script one day and illustrate her words. 

Kevin mentioned that there were several old one-room schoolhouses in Holt County, where they lived, and he was certain there were more around the state.

By the end of the conference it was settled, we were going to Nebraska.

When we got back to our office in Florida, we scanned the story into digital form - it had been typed out on a typewriter - and sent it to Katie. Within a week Katie had cut down the words to a manageable script and Kevin had sent photos and locations of several old one-room schoolhouses near their home.

The story started slow. We spent our time exploring abandoned school buildings, capturing the dust and cobwebs of untouched years. We ran overnight time-lapses. The beauty of an abandoned building in a fallow field is one of the many reasons I find Nebraska so surprisingly beautiful.

An abandoned schoolhouse in Holt County, Nebraska. It was one of the first locations Kevin took us to and one of the first overnight time-lapses we captured in Nebraska.

An abandoned schoolhouse in Holt County, Nebraska. It was one of the first locations Kevin took us to and one of the first overnight time-lapses we captured in Nebraska.

That first trip in 2013 taught us what we didn’t know. Mostly, that there was a lot of information out there on one-room schoolhouses and one week wasn’t enough to soak it all up. We ended up returning several times, always tying in a paying job to help cover expenses.

Everywhere we went we met a slew of kind and helpful people. It was my introduction to what I call “The Nebraska Name Game.” 

Nebraska is a state of small towns. It’s the romantic America that we forget still exists. Everyone literally knows everyone else.

For example, on this one story alone, the name game went something like this:

We have a friend in Lincoln, Ted, who told us about his friend, Flip, in Thedford. Flip owns an exotic animal farm that happens to have a wonderfully refurbished one-room schoolhouse on it(only in Nebraska). After we visited Flip, he told us about a museum in Henderson with another refurbished schoolhouse. The woman at the museum in Henderson knew that all school records for Hamilton County - the county Agnes taught in all those years ago - were kept in the courthouse in Aurora. The folks in Aurora let us go through the records ourselves, leading us to find Agnes’ hand-written class records with the names of every student she taught. The people in Aurora then sent us to Farmer’s Valley Cemetery, where the Farmer’s Valley School - the one we were illustrating - once stood. In the Farmer’s Valley Cemetery we met a volunteer groundskeeper (he liked keeping the graveyard clean for visiting families) who knew a man that attended Farmer’s Valley School. That man knew the farm where the schoolhouse had been moved to and was being used as a tack shed. The family on that farm showed us a school project their daughter had done on the life of their tack shed, showing it in it's original form as a schoolhouse to where it now stood outside her front door. They then introduced us to Carmen who was involved with the local historical society. Carmen helped us find Arlyce Siebert who attended Farmer’s Valley School in 1942 and kept a portrait of her teacher from that year - Agnes Roemmich - as a bookmark in her Bible. Arlyce invited us to her house, agreed to follow us to a close-by schoolhouse for an interview, and became an unexpected introduction to the video.

The “Name Game” had taken us full circle.

Shooting cutaways at a refurbished schoolhouse in Grand Island, NE.

That’s how “The Nebraska Name Game” goes. It starts with one introduction and a story, and ends in an abundance of hospitality and kindness. The people who helped us on this story - and for every story we’ve done in Nebraska - genuinely wanted to help. They were sincerely interested in what we were doing and it showed. They didn’t help to gain a favor; they helped because they wanted to.

In 2014 we launched the finished product, “A Teacher Remembered,” as one of the leading videos on our (then) new web site, NebraskaProject.com.

Something Old, Something New

Sitting with Margaret Connealy in 2015. I had to sit close so she could hear the questions and she loved that the microphone cover was called a “dead cat.” Margaret was 107 at the time and passed away in 2016.

Yesterday the Nebraska Project released our latest video: Nebraska’s Centenarians. 

For the last year and a half, as our team traveled through Nebraska, we stopped in small towns from Pawnee City to Hay Springs to interview people who had met the 100 year mark.

When we began searching for folks who had survived a century, we didn’t know what we would find. We expected to find 5 or 10 people and hoped that half of them would be able to be interviewed. We ended up finding more people than we could get to - 21 are featured in this video - and nearly all of them were sharp, spry and funny.

We met Emma Colson who at 107 had a better memory than I do at 30. “Give me a year,” she told us, “and I’ll give you a memory.”

Emma Colson having a laugh between interview questions. She passed away in 2016 at 108 years of age.

Emma Colson having a laugh between interview questions. She passed away in 2016 at 108 years of age.

We met Thelma Augustin who lived on her farm until she was 97. She was 103 when we met her and the happiest person I have ever come across.

Interviewing Thelma Augustin in Minden, NE. Kyle Henderson is to her right on audio, Roy Rossovitch is on the far right minding the Nikon D5.

Interviewing Thelma Augustin in Minden, NE. Kyle Henderson is to her right on audio, Roy Rossovitch is on the far right minding the Nikon D5.

We met Lorraine Ocampo who still loved to dance at 101 years old, Harold Heins who tried to help us carry our heavy bags to and from the car, Dorothy Mason who kept coming up with new stories every time we started to pack our equipment, and Mildred Dibbern who vigorously rode her stationary bike everyday.

Harold Heins holding a photo of himself as a boy in his army uniform. He served in WWII and passed away in 2016 at 101 years old.

One of the things I love about my job is that I learn something new everyday. Sometimes I learn how to use a new software or a new camera. Sometimes I learn something about a place I'm visiting or the place I'm from. But my favorite days are the days I get to learn about a new person. 

Everyone has a story to tell, no matter how simple or obscure their lives. 

Sitting with this group of incredible people - who had seen and done so much - was humbling as they shared with us their collective memory of the last century.

America's Race

Me, in silhouette, taking a picture of a NASCAR fan.

Through my job I have been to a lot of sporting events. My favorite will always be the Daytona 500.

My special affinity for the place and event is because of my first trip there in 2008. It was the 50th running of the 500 and my first crack at multimedia production.

The plan to create a multimedia was hatched a couple weeks earlier at Super Bowl XLII in Phoenix, AZ (see Feb. 2 blog). Bill had been sitting next to Terry McDonnell, the managing editor of Sports Illustrated, at dinner. Terry mentioned to Bill that he wanted to start creating short videos and mulitmedias for SI.com - they were the newest of the new media at the time. Then I overheard Bill tell Terry that he and I could do that; that I was a fantastic video editor. 

I remember that conversation because I remember kicking Bill under the table. I had edited a few videos before, but never in Final Cut Pro and never on deadline. Bill was confident in my ability to figure it out, and I did.

Two weeks later, Bill and I drove an hour and a half south to Daytona to give it a go. 

Recording some video in the sunset light with an old Canon HD camcorder. Bill and I shot our NASCAR mutlimedia 6 months before Nikon released the first DSLR capable of recording video - the Nikon D90.

If you’ve never been to the infield at Daytona, there is a section at turn four littered with trucks, tents, homemade scaffolding and makeshift bars. It’s a temporary city inhabited by the greatest fans in sport and surrounded by the fastest cars in America. NASCAR and it’s fans encapsulates everything that makes America singular - fast cars, light beer and sun burns.

Turn Four at the Daytona International Speedway. I don't condone the flying of the Confederate Flag, but I can only record what's in front of me.

I walked around the infield with an audio recorder and a microphone and talked to anyone who was willing to talk to me, and at NASCAR that’s pretty much everyone. They are proud, friendly and patriotic, and want to tell you all about it. As I explored Daytona International Speedway, I discovered that I enjoyed interviewing people; I liked hearing their stories and getting to know them.

I quickly learned how to phrase questions that required more than a yes or no answer. I also found that if you approach someone with a smile and respect, they’ll pretty much tell you anything you want to hear. All I really wanted to know was why they loved NASCAR and this race so much.

Collecting some ambient sound in the infield.

What I found was that the infield of Daytona was a family. These people come hell or high water every year. 2008 in particular was a difficult year for many. The economy had begun to slip, particularly in Florida and particularly in real estate and construction. Gas had jumped to $3 per gallon and many of the people I talked to weren’t entirely sure they’d have enough money to get home after the race.

They came close to tears as as they told me about the day Dale Earnhardt’s car went into the wall at turn four, or the year they didn’t have money for a campsite so one of their infield family members invited them to theirs.

Race day itself - February 17, 2008 - was a blur. I probably walked 20 miles around the track that day with a wide angle lens and audio recorder trying to find quirky pictures, quotes and ambient sound. 

Fans in the grandstand cheer as Ryan Newman crosses the finish line, winning the 50th running of the Daytona 500.

After the race we sent images to Sports Illustrated - Bill was still responsible for general coverage - then got in the car and drove to Gainesville. Since I had never edited a video or multimedia before, Bill called Tricia Coyne - a photographer and videographer at the Gainesville Sun who he had worked with him off and on for a few years.

Tricia met us at my apartment across from campus and immediately started importing files into Final Cut Pro. Her idea of teaching was doing and my idea of learning was watching, so we were a good team. Tricia was used to working on deadline and moved quickly.

We listened to the quotes first, pulling out the best of the bunch and placing them in the project sequence. I told her an idea I had about placing some of the portraits over ambient sound of the cars going by. She liked the idea and quickly began pulling an example together.    

I watched as she set in and out points for video and attached it to the sequence, trimming or extending audio as needed.

Tricia and Bill stayed until about midnight getting the beginning of the multimedia together. Tricia gave me a few tips and shortcuts and left me with it.

By morning I had a pretty decent edit together, at least I thought so.

I’ve never worked so hard in my life. I’ve also never had more fun…I felt so creatively alive.
— Journal from February 19, 2008

It was the first time I had ever been completely involved in a creative process from start to finish and the experience was addicting. From Daytona, we ended up visiting five more tracks that year - Sonoma, Bristol, Indianapolis, Pocono and Las Vegas - to fill out the story. Each place had it's own characters and charms.

I have since edited more videos and multimedias than I can count. That video, while not great from a technical standpoint, is still one of my favorites. Watching it brings back the warmth of the Florida sun in February, the hum of stock-cars around the 2.5 mile track, and memories of the fans who helped me do my job by inviting on top of their trucks and scaffolding, volunteering for photos and interviews, and offering me more beer and moonshine than any one person could possibly consume.

What I love most about that first Daytona 500 was that it made my future clear to me. It opened up a creativity I didn’t know I had and a world I wanted to be part of. I knew then I wanted to tell stories, and over the last nine years I’ve been lucky enough to do just that.

 

Long Flights

One of many long flights, this one across Australia in August of 2009.

One of many long flights, this one across Australia in August of 2009.

I’m one of those strange people who enjoys long flights.

For many years, flights to Europe or Asia were my only chance to sit in one place for an extended period. They became - in a strange way - grounding. 

Long flights give you an opportunity to really settle in, read a book, watch a movie, listen to music, or - if you’re like me - catch up on some thoughts. It’s the only place in the world where you are truly off the grid. No one can reach you while you’re flying over international waters.

There was a period from 2008 until about 2014 that I was traveling so much and so quickly that I couldn’t keep up. I would be in Miami one day for a portrait, then Australia for a month, then Nebraska for another shoot, Berlin for another, Singapore for another. It was an incredible time, but one that - for me - I only remember through flights. 

It was on those long flights I could catch up with my life. I could think about where I was and what I was doing, and write it down. 

On my way to the Beijing Olympics, a little over a year after meeting Bill Frakes in the Atlanta airport, I wrote:

My life today doesn’t even resemble my life one year ago. I think that’s a good thing. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, so I guess that’s a good sign. We’re flying south over Russia right now. That’s so insane. I wonder where I’ll be this time next year.
— Journal entry from August 2008

One year later I was in Australia on another plane. We were flying over the red center - from Alice Springs to Sydney - when Bill took this picture of me and when I wrote these words:

I’ve always been a firm believer that place shapes a person; where you’re from shapes you. So what about where you’ve been? How does that change you? Does it force you to lose touch with your roots? Or does it reinforce them? Does it give you better understanding? Or does it leave you disconnected and lost? I guess I’ll find out.
— Journal entry from August 2009

There were times when I was traveling so much that I would start to lose sight of how singular my experiences were. Long flights would give me the time to remember my bliss.

The more I see the less I know and I want to keep it that way. I don’t ever want to stop seeing, learning and growing.
— Journal from 2010, flight from Brussels

Over the years and the places, I (slowly) grew up. My perspective began to change and with it my thought process. 

What is it about travel that evokes soul searching. Why does it take a trip to a foreign land to discover things about yourself that are as much a part of you in your own backyard as anywhere else?
— Journal from 2012, flight to Amsterdam

To answer those questions I traveled the world several times over. In each city, country and continent I have felt a part of the place; like I could drop everything and become a foreigner in a foreign land.

There are peices of myself scattered across the places I have visited. Each place has, in return, left a peice of itself embedded in me. 

Through it all I have somehow maintained a balance, and I’ve always ended up back where I started - Jacksonville, FL.

I’m off again, and this time I’m going home. It’s is just another dot on a map; another destination to get to…Home is where the truest version of myself exists; the closest I get to authenticity. It’s where the people I love most in the world live. It’s where my history was written.
— Journal from 2015, flight home from Beirut

I’ve always needed quiet time to be alone with my thoughts. For many years, long flights were that time for me. 

I don’t travel as fast and furiously as I used to and that’s by design. The trips now are longer and spread further apart. Still, I long for the long flights to take me to my various stopping points.

With that said, I need to plan a trip somewhere far away soon.

Quality Education (For all)

A classroom at the Anne Carlsen Center with Mark Coppin (far left) and Sady Paulson (center).

In February of 2012, Bill and I went north to work on a story at the Anne Carlsen Center in Jamestown, ND. We were going to be following their director of assistive technology, Mark Coppin, and one of his star students, Sady Paulson.

We had met Mark before at a couple events, but until we got there I had no idea what the extent of his work entailed. Mark is a rockstar teacher. He has presented to the United Nations on accessing abilities and President Obama named him one of 10 “Champions of Change” in 2013. Mark has traveled the world presenting and spreading the message of equal access for all.

The Anne Carlsen Center itself is an impressive place. It is a non-profit organization that provides support and services to individuals in North Dakota with developmental disabilities and delays. As Mark soon taught us, at the Anne Carlsen Center it’s not just about accessibility, it's about “accessing abilities” and helping the children they serve reach their full potentials.

The work done there is inspiring. Through Mark, we met a wide variety of incredible children.

We met Brandon, a child on the autism spectrum who had never been able to communicate until the iPad and an app gave him the tools he needed to say what he was thinking. We met Alex, who had an entire half of his brain removed and was re-learning how to walk and talk. Then we met Sady. 

Sady has cerebral palsy and can’t speak or control her limbs, but her disability has done nothing to slow her down. Through Mark, the Anne Carlsen Center and her own gumption, she has accessed her abilities. She is incredibly funny and sarcastic, and also happens to be a supremely talented video editor. She was featured in and edited this accessibility ad for Apple:

During her time at the Anne Carlsen Center she worked extensively with Mark. He helped set up a scanning system on her chair, connecting left and right buttons to commands on her computer, allowing her to type, communicate and edit in Final Cut Pro. 

Watching her work is incredible, inspiring and exhausting. Since she has no control over her hands, Mark connected her buttons to her head rest. To control her computer, she moves her head left or right, depending on what she wants to do. It’s physical work.

While at the Anne Carlsen Center, we also met a group of incredible and dedicated teachers. Teachers who clearly love their students. They have the patience and empathy to work with each child individually to find the solution that best fits their personal needs.

As we left North Dakota, I remember calling my mom - overwhelmed by the love I felt at the Anne Carlsen Center - to tell her that if either my brother or I ever had a special needs child, we were all moving to North Dakota.

Being there made me appreciate my mind and body. It also made me think about the many amazing teachers I have been lucky enough to have in my life.

The first teacher I remember is Ms. Maziak, or “Maziak Craziak” as we called her. She was one of my preschool teachers, and she taught me that learning was both creative and fun. She also taught me how to spell my name correctly. I spelled it L-A-U-P-A. She corrected it to L-A-U-R-A (in my defense, P and R look awfully similar to a 5-year-old).

Me and Ms. Maziak. Contrary to my face in this photo, I loved Ms. Maziak.

Me and Ms. Maziak. Contrary to my face in this photo, I loved Ms. Maziak.

Then there was Mrs. Underwood, my kindergarten teacher and the first of many amazing educators I would encounter during my 12 years in the St. John’s County Public School System. It was in her class I had my first lesson on racism and bigotry. One day, just before recess, my best friend, Brandis, got called a word I had never heard before and had no context for its meaning. All I knew was Brandis was upset and instead of going out to recess which is what I wanted to do, Mrs. Underwood was explaining to the class that we are all equal, that inside our hearts pump the same blood, and that there were certain words that would not be tolerated in her classroom.

Mrs. Underwood during our field trip to Publix, the local grocery store. I'm the short-haired smiler to her left.

Mrs. Underwood during our field trip to Publix, the local grocery store. I'm the short-haired smiler to her left.

A couple years later I found myself in Mrs. Skelton’s 3rd grade class. Mrs. Skelton instilled in me a lifelong love of reading. She also helped a 9-year-old tomboy make girlfriends by creating “new seat assignments,” which happened to put me at a table of girls. Looking back, Mrs. Skelton’s “new seat assignments” was really just “new seat assignment.” I was the only student she moved. I’m glad she did. Two of the girls that were at that table are still close friends.

Mrs. Skelton liked our class so much she invited us all to her daughter's wedding. This is she and I at the reception.

Mrs. Skelton liked our class so much she invited us all to her daughter's wedding. This is she and I at the reception.

After a few awkward years of middle school, I escaped to Nease High School where Aletha Wilkerson Dresback was the International Baccalaureate Coordinator and my guidance counselor. Aletha saved my life. I had three friends die my junior year and I was heading down a destructive path. I don’t know how much she knew of my life outside of school, but she somehow sensed I needed space and freedom to grieve, and she let me. If I needed to sit in her office with a friend instead of going to Spanish class, she let me. If I needed to complain about English instead of going to English, she let me (to a point). I was a good student and she knew that. She gave me the opportunity to take responsibility for my own actions, and for that I am forever grateful.

Aletha and I at an event in the Nease High School cafeteria. 

Aletha and I at an event in the Nease High School cafeteria. 

There were countless others - other teachers, coaches and administrators. People like Mr. Biondolino, Coach Marquart, Mr. Hotson and Señora Weaver. I could go on, but it would take a while.

Maybe I've been lucky to have had so many great teachers in my formal education, but I don't think I'm alone. Like many people across the nation, I would not be where I am today without the hard work of the dedicated public servants we call teachers.

To all the educators out there - whether you work with special needs students at a place like the Anne Carlsen Center or an elementary school in one of America’s cities, suburbs or small towns - thank you. The world would fall apart without your commitment, and your work does not go unnoticed.

Super Bowl XLII

Nine years ago, almost to the day, I was on my way to Phoenix, AZ, for Super Bowl XLII.

It was my first Super Bowl, and my first trip to Arizona.

One thing I have learned about traveling with Bill Frakes is that no matter where in the world he is flying and who is paying for it, he will always find and book the cheapest ticket. It’s about the principal for him. So the Friday before the Super Bowl in Phoenix, we flew into Yuma on a double connect through Atlanta and Salt Lake City. 

If his frugalness has taught me anything, it’s that the best way isn’t always the fastest.

Thanks to the double connect through Salt Lake, we met an Elvis impersonator on his way to Yuma for an Elvis convention. He looked more like Elvis in his later years, but the likeness was still impressive.

Hanging out with Elvis at the Salt Lake City airport on our way to Yuma.

If we hadn’t flown into Yuma, I never would have seen Yuma. Not that Yuma is much to see. It is as flat and dusty as its name. Just north of our Mexican neighbors, it is one place where the nearly two thousand mile border is separated by a wall. As US citizens in the USA, we had to pass through border protection. There were police and border patrol everywhere. Cars and buses were pulled over on the side of the road. IDs were being checked at every stop. The immigration debate in Yuma was palpable. I could literally reach out and touch it.

The road north to Phoenix seemed to rise out of the heat with the cacti and rocky, other-worldly formations. It was hard to fathom that Arizona was part of the same world as my soggy Florida home.

The sun-bleached ground, the blue sky and the arid anonymity of being human in a place where none belonged made for an almost existential experience. Arizona was the first place that made me start to question my place in the world. Not in a “what am I doing with my life” kind of way, but more of a “life is amazing and I want to see and do as much as I can while I’m here” kind of way.

Some road side art at a gas station just outside Yuma, AZ.

For the trip to Arizona, Bill made a surprising decision. He left his Canon equipment - the camera system that every other Sports Illustrated photographer would be using - at home and brought the new Nikon D3 and accompanying lenses. At the time, Sports Illustrated worked exclusively with Canon cameras, but Bill had been a career Nikon shooter. He had confidence in and extensive experience with the gear.

Nikon Professional Services had asked him to give their new line of cameras a test. I think most people would test a new camera with their kid in their backyard. Not Bill. Bill tested them at the Super Bowl.

To be fair we used them extensively in the days leading up to the big game. We drove through the Tonto National Forest in search of saguaros. We took them up to Sedona to see the red rocks. We shot desert sunsets, which truly are the most beautiful sunsets on Earth. Light there seems to hang on the horizon long after the sun goes down, as if it’s caught in the dust that never seems to go away.

Dusk in the desert.

Then there was the game itself. We got to the stadium early - or what I thought was early. I was somehow under the impression that the game didn’t start until 8pm eastern time. 

We walked around outside the stadium for a while looking for fan features and munching on the lunches we packed - concession food at the Super Bowl is still concession food. 

We were in no rush. Bill was shooting the elevated position, which meant we had two seats above the 50 yard line. The photographer’s shooting from field level always had to be in place early to make sure they got the spot they needed, but our spots were already set.

We went through the security checkpoint at the media entrance and were surprised that there was no line. Then, just as we got inside, an announcement came on.

“Kick-off is in 30 minutes.”

We looked at each other wide eyed, then ran to our seats. 

We got to them with 10 minutes to spare and said hello to our neighbors, Jesse Jackson and his daughter Santita.

We all have regrets, one of mine is not asking Santita to pose for a photo with me. I didn't want to seem like a fan girl. Looking back, that is a silly reason for not asking for a photo with someone you spent four hours talking to. Still, that's her to my left, the field to my right, and a Nikon D3 and 400mm f/2.8 in my hand.

Jesse introduced himself and gave us each a warm handshake before turning back to his friends next to him. We made our way four seats in and I ended up right next to Santita. She and I chatted most of the game. She told me about her radio show in Chicago. I told her about being an SEC college kid and the unexpected turn my life took when I started following a famous photographer around the world.

I realized as we were talking that we came from vastly different worlds. She grew up in a big city as the daughter of one of our nation’s most well known civil rights activists. I grew up on the beach in Florida completely unaware of a world outside my homogenous bubble. Yet here we both were at the Super Bowl, laughing and swapping stories.

We talked about friends and family, favorite ice creams (chocolate-chip cookie dough) and pizzas (all pizza). Then, as seems to frequently happen with me, the conversation turned to politics.

Since she had a radio show in Chicago, I was curious if she had met the charming young Senator from Illinois who had recently thrown his hat into the presidential election, Barack Obama.

“Girl,” she told me, “I was one of Michelle’s bridesmaids.”

I fully confess I didn’t know who Michelle was at the time, but I guessed she was Barack’s wife.

“Is he as authentic as he seems,” I asked her?

“Oh, he is,” she told me, “but you should meet Michelle.”

Now - nine years later - we have all met Michelle, and what an introduction. We have seen the class, grace and fiery intelligence she brought to the White House as First Lady, and watched as her husband navigated the complicated waters of being the most powerful man in the world. He made history as our nation’s first black president but - more importantly - his leadership reminded us of one simple American truth: we are more alike than we are different.

As we go into Black History month, that Super Bowl conversation is on my mind. I appreciate the sacrifices made by the Civil Rights leaders of the 1960s like her father, Jesse, and others like Senator John Lewis and Martin Luther King, Jr. But I also appreciate Santita and her friend’s Michelle and Barack Obama, the history they made and the values they embody.

The game itself is still the greatest Super Bowl I have personally been to, and only partially because the Giants spoiled the Patriots perfect season.

Anyone who loves football knows what happened in the 4th quarter of that game. They know that Eli Manning and the Giants got the ball back with less than 3 minutes on the clock, trailing the undefeated Patriots 14-10. They know that on 3rd and 5 with just over a minute remaining Eli escaped a sure sack and heaved the ball downfield to a well covered David Tyree who somehow caught the pass, securing it as he fell with one hand on top of his helmut. A few plays later Eli found Plaxico Burress in the end zone with 35 seconds left.

The Giants won 17-14. It was awesome. Everyone cheered, Giants and Patriots fans alike. Games like that are why we love sport. Football, for all it’s obvious flaws, has a way of brining together the most unlikely of friends.