Photographers I Have Known

My boyfriend Travis is something of a photographer, but his camera went on the fritz right around the time we started dating, and he hasn't replaced it. So we've used my camera on our various excursions together, and I've taken almost all the pictures. I'm manifestly not a photographer, and many of them have turned out badly: fuzzy, foreshortened, or weirdly framed. However, every now and then I manage a good shot. I'm actually pretty pleased with some of the photos I took on our recent weekend trip to the White Mountains.

One I particularly like shows Travis standing on the bank of a shallow creek, framed by yellow cottonwood leaves in the foreground. He looks happy. He's in his element.

It's a photograph that almost didn't happen. We were a couple of hours into the drive home, and we just happened to spot a perfect photo opportunity.

“There's our fall foliage,” Travis said, indicating the gorge on our right, where cottonwoods were making a sinuous line of gold through the darker evergreens. “Funny, I don't remember seeing this on our way up there.”

“Yeah, I didn't see it either. Beautiful!”

“Wow. I can't believe I didn't notice this. We ARE on the same road...right?”

“Yes,” I said. “We were just preoccupied on the drive up. Remember? My five-hour rant?”

“Oh. Yeah. That. I guess I was too busy defending myself to look at the scenery.” 

He gives me a grin, because that was then, and this is now, and neither of us really gives a shit about anything we might have argued about on the drive up. We've just spent a lovely long weekend together, and we're feeling pretty exuberant.

However, the drive to the White Mountains was a whole different ball of wax. 

Then, my knickers were really in a twist.

Right before Travis came to get me for our weekend away, I checked my Facebook home page, and saw that my ex-boyfriend Rick had just uploaded a bunch of new photographs. Most of them were of the same woman, although it seemed like she was wearing a different outfit (did I say outfit? I meant bikini...) in every shot. Lithe, sexy, fresh-faced – and probably not much over twenty.

Supposedly, Rick had been in Florida on a business trip, but apparently he'd found enough time to pursue his favorite hobby. I couldn't resist commenting (and I'm paraphrasing, as he's since removed both my comment and the photographs that occasioned it): “Gee, looks like work's been really tough lately. Wandering around on the beach, taking photographs... I bet you even got sand in your shoes. Poor you.” Just some light-hearted ribbing, right?

Wrong. I kept chewing on what I'd said, and it wasn't long before I began to wonder if maybe it sounded snarky. Bitter, even.

I told Travis about Rick's photo shoot, and my reaction to it, right about the time we were reaching the city limits. At the very beginning of our five-hour journey, in other words. And that's when Travis made his big tactical error: “Hmm. Sounds like this is bringing some things up for you,” he said. “Tell me about it.” 

So I did. 

I won't bore you with my long disquisition on beauty, American culture, and how “age” is the most problematic part of “image”. I will refrain from trash-talking Rick, or either of the other two photographers I've dated in recent years.

(Funny – I broke up with one of them right after he emailed me a bunch of photographs he'd taken of his wife, whom I'd never seen before. They were gorgeous, and so was she. My reply basically went like this: Wow. You are really good. And your wife is a complete knock-out. As for having dinner next week, though, the answer is no. Much as I've enjoyed your company over the last several months, I don't think I am cut out for a relationship this casual. Sorry this email is such a completely lame-o way to tell you so.)

Suffice it to say that, in the end, my five-hour rant can be summed up by the following interchange:

Me: Okay, fine – so tell me something. What do you have your age range set to on OKCupid?

Travis (trapped): Um. Okay. 35 to 42.

Me: That's it? That's the range? 42. 42. Jesus fucking Christ. FORTY-TWO?!? That's TEN YEARS YOUNGER than you! ELEVEN, actually! As your absolute this-is-the-oldest-woman-I-would-consider-dating! Oh, yeah, and you KNOW that men message women who are YOUNGER than their supposed “this is too young for me” cut-off point, but do they message women who are older? Not bloody likely. THIS is the problem. THIS is what I'm talking about. You're only into me because I'm so much younger than you are. And apparently I have only six more years before I'm TOAST, before I'm completely OBSOLETE (etc., etc.)...

...At which point, Travis, bless his heart, breaks in with a joke: “Rick, you bastard – WHY couldn't you have waited to post those pics until AFTER we'd already left?”

So, yes, the vacation began somewhat inauspiciously, with Travis – who is, nota bene, sixteen years and eight months my senior – bravely taking the hit for every man who's ever lusted after a woman younger than himself.

However, let's give credit where credit is due: he talked his way through that landmine-strewn conversation with just the right combination of patience and chutzpah. By the time we checked into our little cabin in the woods, I had gotten over myself, and we went on to have a fantastic weekend together. And no, not just because Travis doesn't have a camera.