Canadian Essentials

No snow job

My Instagram bio boasts that I “used to photograph barbecues, microwaves, lingerie, and snow blowers” (no word on what I aim my cameras at today). Here, finally, is the photographic evidence.

It took a while to reach this eminent position after my arrival (by bus) in Canada’s centre of catalogue photography in the late eighties. As I’ve recounted in other chapters of the Toronto Diaries, my initiation was a bit of a comedown, from my own small but independent studio in Vancouver to TDF, one of Toronto’s biggest commercial studios, albeit as a janitor.

Polish, persuasion, and a studio secret

Finally, at Pringle & Booth, following a stint as an assistant, I attained full photographer status and the glory of bathing “merch” in irresistible light, such that consumers might be enticed to buy that new barbecue, bathmat or bustier. Better yet, all three.

I took my assignments seriously, if only to challenge my existing skills, and counted myself lucky to be working alongside some of the most talented “light shapers” in the industry. The tricks I learned from them were invaluable.

Can’t get a very dark, light-eating object to separate from a dark background? No sweat. Powdered underarm deodorant spray to the rescue.

Summer Essentials

Bare Essentials

Laughs beat looks

The most persistent myth about commercial photography, particularly fashion, is that it is a glamorous game. Perhaps the photographers of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar have enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity, and the supermodels of the 80s achieved star status (nothing like it exists today) but, at the end of the day, business comes first.

Ah, but what about the attractive models? I might quote the old maxim “beauty is only skin deep,” but again professionalism came before the personal. If it didn’t, sayonara, model or photographer. Models who brought attitudes to the job weren’t rebooked; those with a good sense of humour, who could break the tension with a joke, got more work than the most flawless narcissist.

As I recounted in the last post, the long hours and pressure were brutal — no place for the faint-hearted — so levity was valued above looks.

Advertising asylum

One of my old TDF colleagues, who long ago switched from commercial photography to the related field of psychology, last week reminded me by email of the “harrick” incident. Rob, one of the more extroverted photographers got on this kick of shouting across the cavernous studio “”Harick! … Harick! … Harick!”

The hapless recipient of these outbursts, which would go on for hours, was a quiet chap named Eric. Eric worked hard and kept his head down, but finally exploded in a fit of rage. Rob turned his manic provocations on another anxiety-ridden guy: “You’re the champ, chump, You’re the champ, chump,” he’d repeat endlessly, until the poor victim would plead for him to stop.

It was, as my friend wrote, and he should know, “fucking insanity.”

I recall these stories with a certain amount of amusement today. At the time, they gave me nightmares, eventually forcing upon me the realization that I was too timid for the dog-eat-dog world of product promotion.

I made my living for a while yet in these madhouses, enough to finance a trip back to my hometown of Wolverhampton, England, and to replenish finances on return, but ultimately, I failed to get ahead in advertising.