Follow Your Bliss

I’ve met some of the most brilliant, wildly-talented photographers over the years who “hid their light under a bushel.” As the proverb goes.

One-such artist was my portrait mentor Louis Ver Baere. He wore tired of teaching college-level photography in Chicago and bought an existing studio “out west” in Pendleton Oregon to “…do, rather than teach.” He was always reading Louis L’amour novels, so his migration to this town filled with rancher made perfect sense.

I was in awe of his portraiture, but had ZERO desire to replicate it. “I only use natural light and focus on landscapes” I made clear to him as I merely sought his professional input about my fine art photography.

We began having regular lunches at his studio desk. He offered to send my favorite images to try his pro labs in Chicago and Portland. I had no idea what a brilliant teacher I had to myself. He critiqued my work and reveled in his professional photographer’s magazine from PPA.com. “Ah, what an incredible style…” as he admired a feature photographer’s work. "...if only I could be this great!..”

At 19 I was in awe of hearing this humility from a 70 year old who’s work was already amazing. The thing was, it was portraiture, and my goal was to shoot anything that didn’t include people or man-made content - I frequently reminded him of this as he continued teaching me about how to master lighting.

Eventually he flat-out challenged me with “You have a rare gift, you’re great with people and you have an eye for scenic photography … you can do both. Just pose people in front of your landscapes.”

I remember looking around his dust-covered studio lobby, filled with the smell of his chain-smoking odor. The only thing not covered in dust were his ashtrays. This studio and K-Mart was all that I knew of portraiture, but I agreed to work with him, feeling a nudge despite my opposition.

He trained me in studio lighting and posing in exchange for my admin support. In honor of his terms I had to learn classical lighting (Loop, Butterfly, Split and Rembrandt) before he would teach me to blend lighting with the ambiance of outdoor.

I shot weddings with him, assisted in the camera room, process and printed black & white, masked negatives and scoured photo magazines over our lunches together as he inspired me to appreciate what I once could not see. After a couple of painstaking months, he took me on my first outdoor portrait session.

Intimidated by those huge Metz, off-camera strobes, I said “I prefer to just use natural lighting.” His look of disgust is forever tattooed on my brain. “Okay, take a few without flash on your camera but I won’t do that to my client. We’ll do it my way and compare.”

A week later, while looking at the natural-only proofs, he asked me a question that would become my a-ha moment. “What color are their eyes?”

Sun to their backs or standing on the edge of shade, there are only so many places that even a reflector can provide what you want. My contrasty proofs looked like a family of raccoons. Dark eye sockets with no iris colors showing - his … I couldn’t tell he’d even used a flash to make it look natural and they exploded with accurate colors.

We did this for two years until my weekend road-trips turned into a strong pull for me to move to Portland OR. Pendleton felt too small for me, and I had big dreams of becoming the next Ansel. (yes, I thought rather large from my meek little frame…)

The day I left he bought me lunch at his favorite steak house. We sat in a booth where my U-Haul could be seen just outside the window. He asked me about my goal and listened quietly before taking a deep breath. With a quick, side-nod toward the window he asked “What happens when I go? … My family will sell my entire life’s work for 10 cents on the dollar … You could have it all, just for a mere signature. $100,000 in paid-off equipment and a thriving studio with a history of success.”

I looked out the window at my skewed-down life, all packed up in a box, turned back to him and asked “Why would you ask me this now?..”

“I want you to go. If you don’t you’ll NEVER be happy here - wondering what else might be out there. Go, explore for a couple of years, but then come back and work me into retirement. We’ll get you running strong as I fade into the background. You can hire a studio manager so you can go do all that you want outdoors. It’s all yours with two conditions - my name stays on the studio and it must remain in Pendleton."

Boldly, I told him I would consider it on one of my own conditions - he could only smoke in the darkroom where there was a fan. I told him I couldn’t work in his clutter or go home smelling like an ashtray. We shook on it, ate lunch and off I went.

1986 I landed my first job at Zupans in West Linn. Thirteen mos. later a Fred Meyer executive offered me a job while I was ringing up her groceries. I accepted the job where I was fast-tracked into management. In short order I was transferred from Salem to Beaverton to Albany, where I was promoted to assistant manager of the expanding photo division.

That’s where I was when my two-year alarm went off on to decide on his offer. I was making decent money, had great benefits and gained rapid recognition for my profitable merchandising and efficiency systems.

Despite those securities I went with my gut. I knew that I would regret not finding out what was behind my door number one. Such is my great fortune, Fred’s had just built an apparel-only store three blocks from the studio. I gave a convincing plea to a department I knew nothing about, and landed a “Closing PIC” position. I moved back to Pendleton.

Lou was always in the studio from 5a - 5p so my aggressive overhaul had to be implemented after hours. Now having a key to the studio I came in after he left. I worked through the night completely sanitizing the entire, publicly visible areas. I rearranged his cluttered reception area, dusted and culled his HUNDREDS of 16x20 display samples in racks (think pre-internet) and displayed a number of his add-on items - frames and folios.

It felt so new that I didn’t want to leave. I began rifling through his books to find his most successful year was 1972, just prior to a recession. Using a similar format to our Fred Meyer forms, I created a projection for the remaining half of the year, multiplied it by 205% (to justify my expense to him, plus some added value) and rounded it up to some easier numbers to remember.

When he arrived the next morning he appeared anything but impressed. I knew it was a risk, but him being a visual, decided it was better to just do and beg for forgiveness later.

He had an appointment on the books for that afternoon. A Native American family portrait session was coming in to view proofs and place an order. It would be my first-such appointment, and I think he felt too disoriented by the space to change his mind. He left me alone to handle the order.

After we finished I walked them to the door and went back to write followup notes. Hearing the door he came out of the back, leaned over my order form and said in his Chicagoan way - “Holy shit, what the hell did you do?”

I sold his biggest package with a few extras. Worried, that I screwed up again, I asked if I missed something. “I've never sold that package, in fact I usually knock off a couple of hundred bucks from the smaller packages. That package was only listed in case somebody won the lottery.”

Naive me - I’d been working retail too long to know any better. You know, where the price is the price and you don’t banter... I told him that it must’ve been the clean studio. Cheeky, perhaps, but in the eight months we worked together, we more than tripled his sales.

The amazing year of his mentorship ended that same year. I had read the book “What Color is Your Parachute” and decided to decline his offer. The book convinced me that I belonged in Portland. I made calls, found a fit as a Fred Meyer Nutrition Center manager and returned to Portland in 1989.

Before Lou’s cancer got the better of him he left me a box of gear that would eventually help me to start up my business - from scratch. No mentors, no clients and no idea just how much he had instilled in my subconscious mind.

In 1996 I started my own membership with Professional Photographers of America and joined the Oregon affiliate, eager to find mentors now that Lou was gone. I began entering print competitions where I discovered just how great Lou’s guidance was.

I won several awards on my debut, and the next five years that followed. In 2002, after one last prestigious award - The People’s Choice Award, I stopped competing. I had only one agenda when I first entered - to make sure I should even be charging for my work.

I felt like I got my answer and made a very conscious decision to focus more on creativity than competition. Something I read in a timeless gem called “The Science of Getting Rich” by Wallace Wattles.

Paraphrased, I learned (and proved true) that to be in the competitive mind, we come from a place of fear. We are always worrying about what people think, rather than just creating. To get into that ineffable state of connection to a scene, where I could swear that seagulls and clouds can feel my often-audible thoughts “Lift-lift-lift…”

This was the story behind “Mystic Beach.” Created in 1988. First printed in 1996, entered in my first competition in 1997 where it earned a Kodak Gallery Award and Fuji Masterpiece.

A panel of five PPA-trained judges start all images with a perfect 100 before whittling down to the ‘96 it eventually received after two “challenges.” According to one judge on that panel I could not watch, “That one seagull flying in over the dark waves was too perfect for two of the other judges. They swore you photoshopped it in.”

I’d just opened my studio and couldn’t even afford Photoshop. (2.0 as it was then). I told the judge - “I may have gotten a ‘96, but God got a perfect score. I asked for that bird to lift.” He likely thought I was nuts, but hey - when it works it works.

I further dedicate the success of that image to Louis M Ver Baere who still holds space between my ears - reminding me to not freak when I screw up. “You’ll learn…” he would often say. Most importantly, he told me to never shoot for the judges.

“Do what makes you feel great about your work. If people love what you produce you’ll be happier doing what you do…”

Timeless, priceless Truth.

I LOVE TO DO WHAT I DO, and hope that you enjoy it enough to adorn your home with it.