Get Closer

It was hot October day in Perry, Georgia. My bag of equipment slung over one shoulder, my camera on the other. I readied myself for the madness.

I was on a class assignment for my photojournalism program at UGA. Every year, Mark Johnson (the head of the program and my professor) takes his crew of young photogs to the Georgia National Fair where the students document all of the life, interaction, and chaotic fun for a whole weekend. He calls up his old photo editor friends, who have bylines in publications across the country, and asks them to give feedback on our work throughout the day. Each day repeats the same cycle: go out and shoot photos—experiment, explore, document—then come back to go through your reel with the editors. They give direction and feedback, then you take off for another few hours.

But today, I’m alone.

I missed going with my class because I was in a good friend’s wedding. Mark wasn’t thrilled, but we made a compromise: I’d go to Perry alone to complete the assignment, stay with Ja (my grandmother who lives in Perry) and Mark would call his friend Grant with Georgia Public Broadcasting to come give me notes.

So here I was, wandering around the Perry Fair, trying to capture the sights. Kids wearing huge hats they won from the games, catching the colors that flew overhead in rides and rollercoasters, getting close-ups of the giant pigs in the Junior Swine Showmanship. 

But I could tell I wasn’t hitting the mark. There were a few sweet moments captured on my roll, but nothing ground-breaking or exciting.

Grant met me and we sat together on a curb, dripping in sweat. He scrolled through my photos and essentially said this:

“You know a good moment when you see one—you have a good eye. But some of these have too deep of a depth of field. You need to get closer. Move around. Don’t get pictures from behind or far away. I know it feels intrusive, but get in people’s faces. Don’t just get photos of rides from the ground—actually get on the rides.”

You need to get closer.

That was all the instruction I needed to take off. I saw a man inside a game booth and immediately recognized him. My classmates had taken photos of him from their trip, and he sounded like the legend of the Fair. He had worked that same booth for 22 years and still loved his job more than anything.

So instead of taking a photo of him from the outside, I asked him if I could jump in with him. He obliged, and so we both crammed into his little booth. The life in his eyes and the boom of his voice as he called kids and adults to play the game was so much more vibrant now—more alive. 

Warren Blasich, 50, calls for the crowd to play a game at his stand at the Georgia National Fair in Perry, Georgia, on Thursday, October 12, 2017. Blasich, originally an actor from New York City, now spends his off months in Colorado Springs. He's worked the same booth for 22 years, and said he's the only worker at the Fair who always gives kids a prize, even if they lose. "If they're doing well in school, I give them an even bigger prize," Blasich says. "This is worth a lot more than money to me."

As I continued to navigate the fair and attend the events, I heard Grant’s voice in my head: Get on the rides.

There were plenty of tame, calmer rides I could have chosen. But when I saw the Fire Ball ride, I knew it was the one. (It’s one of those bad boys that swings you back and forth until you loop upside down.) As I stood in line, the internal bickering match began.

“You’re carrying thousands of dollars’ worth of camera equipment on your shoulders. Where exactly are you going to put it? You can’t leave it on the ground, someone will take it.”

Okay, then I’ll just strap it to my body.

“What?! Are you crazy? You know there’s this thing called gravity right? Centripetal force? This thing won’t just take you upside down—it’ll take you upside down fast, and all of your equipment will fly into the air and crash and Mark Johnson will murder you and you’ll have to pay UGA the $4,000 you don’t have.”

But this is the shot, I can feel it! How epic will this photo be if I can take one while we’re upside down? No one else in my class will have something like this! I’m getting closer!!!

“What good is the photo if you smash the camera and SD card into smithereens!?”

It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll strap my bag to my ankles, I’ll wrap my camera around my neck and double-wrap the straps around my wrists so it doesn’t fall off my head…

This continues even as I’m in the seat buckling myself in. But to my surprise, I strike gold with my photo subject: a 10 year-old girl in front of me sitting next to her aunt.

Oh, this is perfect. A photo of a kid having the time of her life on a roller coaster—upside down!? I’m going to crush this assignment.

I honestly don’t remember much of the ride, other than the sweat, the sun practically blinding me, and the terrifying feeling of my camera bag trying to slip away from my ankles. Adrenaline as high as my shutter speed.

But I got the shot.

I came off the ride shaking—and beaming. I did it.

Fast forward to presenting my selects to the class. When I told this story and explained how I got the shot, my classmates freaked out for all the same reasons I almost talked myself out of doing it. Are you crazy? What if you dropped your equipment? How did you secure it? But they didn’t ask with condemnation—they asked in awe. And the only person whose wrath I feared was Mark’s.

But he didn’t berate me for risking the equipment he had spent years trying to fund for his program. In his trademark subtlety, Mark just nodded and gave his sign of approval. “Nice job.”

Even though I veered away from the photojournalism career path, the lesson I learned that day changed me.  It taught me to say yes. To take a risk. To trust your gut, even if other voices in your head tell you it’s a horrible idea. Don’t just settle for mediocre or the minimum—go for gold.

And even if you’re afraid, just walk forward into it. You might get off the ride shaking, but you’ll feel alive. You’ll feel grateful to have made it, like you’ve just escaped total failure (or in this case, total destruction of equipment). You’ll feel hungry for more. You’ll never forget how you chased something and came out on the other side with your prize in hand. And when we lean in instead of draw back, you see the power of proximity. It gives you new eyes with which to see the world around you. 

Trust your instinct. Do it scared. Go on the ride.

Get closer.