“There is nothing so absurd that some philosopher has not already said it.”
                - Cicero

     “Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life.”
                - Brooke Shields

A taste for the absurd doesn’t seem like a useful quality in a freelance photojournalist, or at least I didn’t use to think so. It’s hard to imagine my high-school guidance counselor handing me a brochure titled “So You Want To Be A Photojournalist” with helpful explanation like, “One day you might be a paparazzo in the remote north woods, and the next, photographing a gang of wannabe zombies roaming downtown streets with extremely realistic-looking snacks.” Upon hearing my career plans, it’s far more likely that my guidance counselor would have coughed in a polite, Jeeves-like way and asked if I had considered joining a foreign army.

But I’ve learned that the absurdity my job offers up is real–and it’s here to stay, so I can either fight it or embrace it. Consider a recent day-long magazine profile shoot. We’d been working for several hours when the subject asked for a break to take a call from his girlfriend. I was trying to be a polite Minnesotan and not eavesdrop when he inexplicably handed the phone to me, and I found myself chatting very long distance with a former Miss Iceland. I’ve spent some time in Iceland, and even managed to pick up a few Icelandic phrases. Alas, all I could remember was, “the strong horse” and, “could I please have two hot dogs with everything” (if you’ve ever been to Iceland, you understand the importance of the latter), neither of which impressed her. So that I’m better prepared in the future, I’ve since gained a more suitable repertoire of phrases in the world’s lesser-known languages.

Sometimes, the absurdity could be straight out of a Monty Python sketch. I was on assignment following a national politician for a few days. On one occasion, the traveling staff and I were left to kill time in a hallway outside a conference room where their boss was leading a meeting. While I reviewed images, changed batteries, and generally tried to stay busy, the staffers whipped out their Blackberries and began firing off emails, mostly to one another. “Hey, I got your email about the meeting on Friday and just replied,” one staffer announced without looking up. “Yep, just got it and replied that I forgot I have a conflict,” said another. “OK, I just acknowledged that,” said the first. This continued for a while, and I began to understand how a Blackberry outage really could bring the government to a grinding halt. I’m still not sure if I witnessed a new form of multi-modal human communication, or just compulsive audit-trailing and bureaucratic cover-your-assing taken to extremes.

Other times, even when there seems to be nothing remotely absurd in the offing, the fates still manage to pull a surreal rabbit out of their hat. I was doing interior shots in the sanctuary of a Catholic church and enjoying the peaceful solitude of the place. I’d set up my tripod and camera in a certain spot, carefully frame the shot, make the exposure and move on. Eventually, I reached the floor-to-ceiling cross at the center of the sanctuary, and noticed a warm wetness on my left hand. Looking down, I saw a stream of blood pouring out from under the bandage that covered a cut on my finger, a cut that I thought had healed. I stared woozily at the gusher for a moment before stumbling off in search of something to stanch the bleeding. I later realized that constantly working the knurled rings of the tripod legs had reopened my wound. As a result, my tripod looked as though I had used it to bludgeon hemophiliac pigs. More worrying though was the blood I’d liberally distributed across the pebble-dash textured floor. Cleaning it up was impossible. I imagined a priest walking solemnly through the sanctuary that evening in quiet contemplation. Upon reaching the large cross, he notices the blood on the floor, and in growing astonishment, follows the trail out of the sanctuary, across the hall, and . . . into the men’s room?

Though it took me a little time to adapt to this occupational hazard, I now look forward to the next outburst of on-assignment absurdity. Whether it’s photographing a guy who doused a tree stump with lighter fluid and set it ablaze in his own front yard, trying to accommodate an assistant who insisted I not use his real name in front of the client and subjects, or getting drawn into a discussion on the significance of abortion in “The Cider House Rules” with a Benedictine nun, it’s a weird world out there, and I’m confident there’s plenty more where all of that came from. If you don’t believe me, just ask the talking giraffe.

On a recent Wednesday, my friend David got up early to go for a bike ride. After dressing for the still-chilly April morning, he left his St. Paul house and pedaled down to a local coffee shop to chat with friends. Next, he cycled over to the junior high school where his wife teaches and answered student questions about his odd-looking bike. Finally, he crossed the Mississippi River into Minneapolis and headed south toward the open road. He expects to get back home in October. Of 2011. David, you see, is cycling around the world. Again.

Now I like a good bike ride as much as the next person. But where I measure my rides in miles, David measures his in continents. And while accomplishing such a feat once would furnish most people with the moral superiority to spend the rest of their life on the couch, David simply enjoys the experience (as is evident from his bike blog) and is hungry for more. Since his first journey was essentially a “ride east until you get back home” affair, this trip will cover new ground and unfold in a mostly north and south orientation, bouncing between the poles (or as close as is practical.)

In David’s case, getting there is all of the fun, which is a good thing, since his destination is his origin. His enthusiasm for the journey itself, and especially for doing it again, reminds me of a high school English teacher’s advice to read Adventures of Huckleberry Finn three times. By following Jim and Huck down the river as a boy, again in middle age, and finally as an old man, you can experience the surprise and joy of an unchanging text meaning something very different on each reading. In a similar way, I imagine David will find the world at bike-level to be a different place than it was in the late ‘70s.

Before leaving, David asked me to do some photography for his website. Aware that much of his journey would traverse tropical zones, he wanted a banner image for his FAQ page that instantly communicated the northern climate of his home. Which partially explains how I found myself at dawn, near the end of March, lying on the worryingly thin ice that only partially covered Lake Harriet in Minneapolis. Nothing says “cold climate” like biking on water, David reasoned. I was there to help make that statement–and, I hoped, avoid earning a Darwin Award nomination in the process. To be honest, there’s no way I would have even considered such a thing had not David been so reassuringly confident that we’d be fine. While I was still casting a skeptical eye over the small gap of open water between the shore and the ice, David was hopping onto the ice with his bike. He was so sanguine and unafraid, it seemed impossible the ice would prove him wrong, so out I went.

His overall confidence and faith in his own well-being are among the more important things David takes with him on his journey. More than one of his friends wanted to know how he planned to pass through some of the world’s dicier spots with nothing but a bike for protection. David would smile and reply that sure, there were risks, but he wasn’t worried. When pressed, he’d simply state that, in general, he believed that people were good and wanted to help. Were it not for his previous circumnavigation, I’d be a little more concerned for his safety. But just as he seemingly willed the ice on Lake Harriet to hold us, I’m confident his very nature encourages those he meets to follow their nobler instincts.

Safe and happy travels, David. And save a little energy, because after finishing this trip, you still have one to go.

A while back, I shot the photographs for an 18-month calendar. After it was printed, I gave a copy to my parents and watched proudly as they stuck it up on their refrigerator. A few months later, I noticed that half of the calendar, the picture page, was folded under so only the grid of days showed. Thinking this an odd way to display a calendar, I unfolded the calendar and re-attached it to the fridge with my picture of the month restored to its full glory. On my next visit, the calendar was again folded so that the photograph was hidden. Again, I carefully unfolded it. Over the next year, I waged a silent struggle for my photos, patiently unfolding the calendar on every visit, only to find it refolded on the next. Eventually, I conceded the battle and came to a disconcerting realization: If I couldn’t get published on my own parents’ refrigerator, this truly was a tough business.

Photographers want their photographs to be seen. As a rule, the wider the audience, the larger the reproduction, and the more obvious the attribution, the happier we are. This may seem like raw conceit, and it would be hard to argue that photographers don’t take great pride in their work. Consider what is either a courageous stand on principle or a Hall of Fame hissy fit. W. Eugene Smith resigned from Life magazine (it’s hard for me to even think those words) in an unsuccessful attempt to prevent publication of his photo story on Albert Schweitzer, arguing that the 12 pages Life allotted for his photographs were insufficient to tell the story properly. Smith would live to see the story become a landmark in photojournalism, even though he effectively torpedoed his career rather than be associated with something he considered less than perfect. Unfortunately, intense photographic pride is a well-known phenomenon, and has lately led a few small publications to offer ‘work for credit’ assignments that ‘pay’ nothing but a credit line. Not surprisingly, full-time pros aren’t much interested in this kind of deal, but such is the power of the byline that enthusiastic amateurs with day jobs sometimes agree to this type of predatory arrangement.

But while vanity can certainly motivate a photographer, most of us aren’t raging narcissists. There are easier ways to varnish your ego than an underappreciated and underpaid career as a photographer. Those who stick with it, whatever the hardships, are driven by something else. Though it’s currently unfashionable for photographers to aspire to change the world, with no less than Mary Ellen Mark suggesting such is the product of an inflated ego, I think many photographers want to do something meaningful with their talents. Whether it’s making art, fighting for a cause, or simply telling stories, photographers who have committed to the career for the long haul do it because they want to communicate. And to communicate, there must be an audience. If a camera clicks in the forest, but no one sees the image, is there photography? Art for art’s sake is fine in theory, but as a photojournalist, I want to know that my photos will be seen. If they also inform, challenge, and elicit emotion, so much the better.

Several years ago, I volunteered to shoot the state softball tournament for Special Olympics Minnesota. I was looking for a chance to do some sports photography, and if there was collateral benefit for a worthy cause, that was nice too. After several satisfying hours of great action photos composing themselves in just about any direction I cared to look, I took a break and headed to the pavilion where the athletes were having lunch. A remarkable scene stopped me in my tracks. By this point in the tournament, most of the teams had been knocked out of championship contention, but it was impossible to distinguish winners from losers in the roiling, joyous cacophony. I plunged into the throng, and soon realized there was enough raucous delight on display, not to mention good-natured clowning and mugging for the camera, to keep a small army of photographers busy.

It was an infectious environment, and the otherwise rare ability to be happy in the present is what I now look forward to most about shooting Special Olympics events. Without fail, when I show up to photograph an SO event, an athlete high-fives me or thanks me for being there. While shooting an SO weight-lifting competition, an athlete was so pumped up at successfully completing a lift, he shook hands with each of the 3 happily startled judges, then seeing me nearby, shook my hand as well. Covering a Special Olympics event always leaves me in a happy buzz for days afterward.

Given all of the above, there are no prizes for guessing how I responded to an opportunity to design a billboard around one of my photos for the Special Olympics Polar Bear Plunge fundraisers. It took all of 2 seconds to realize this was a win-win proposition. It offered a chance to do something helpful for a great organization, as well as a chance to casually say, “Oh look, there’s my billboard” to a friend while driving us via a curiously roundabout route to our favorite Vietnamese pho restaurant. Ego and super-ego, together at last.

A portfolio of Special Olympics photos can be seen on this blog’s companion photography website.

Someone once famously compared writing about music to dancing about architecture. I suppose the specific analogy is that the 5 basic ballet positions don’t map well to Doric, Ionic and Corinthian. In any case, I say ‘someone’ because this witticism has been attributed to everyone from Elvis Costello to Igor Stravinsky. To avoid future attribution squabbles and to make sure that I receive my fair share of the t-shirt and bumper sticker revenue, I wish to go on record here and now as the first ever to compare writing about photography to gardening about brain surgery. Or cooking about math. Or maybe miming about poetry. The point is, using words to describe images might seem like a redundant and even hopeless enterprise. Words can exist perfectly well on their own. (See, for example, the works of Douglas Adams.) And good photographs equally stand on their own merits. (See Margaret Bourke-White, W. Eugene Smith, Gregory Crewdson, Sam Abell and Jim Gehrz, to name but a few.) So why combine them? Won’t one dilute the other? Or might not the whole experience have the disappointing flavor of seeing your favorite disc jockey for the first time? “Gee, they sounded much better looking on radio . . .”

Possibly. But in photojournalism, the sub-genre of photography I practice and enjoy most, words and photos are old, if sometimes awkward, friends. Pictures can illustrate a story that is otherwise inexplicable or unbelievable, and words can add deeper meaning and gravity to images that might otherwise be mistaken for just aesthetically pleasing. And another way in which words and photographs complement each other is in recounting the experience of planning, chasing, and making photographs for publication.

When I first hung out my shingle as a freelance photographer and photojournalist, I knew I loved the day-to-day work of shooting. I knew I loved the technology of cameras and computers, and I knew I loved telling stories with photos and seeing those stories published. These were the reasons I gave up more lucrative work to return to my first love. But after a few years, I was surprised to find that something else had gently nudged its way onto the list of core things I loved about my profession. At first, I didn’t notice that I usually came home from an assignment feeling more aware of and connected to the world. I gradually realized that was no coincidence. The places I went, the things I saw, and most of all, the people I met – in short, the overall experience of interacting with the world while doing my job – became as much a part of my love of photography as anything else.

A camera is an entree to places most people don’t see. It provides a kind of social cover for getting to know people faster than is normally considered polite. And while a camera allows the photographer to both participate in and withdraw from the world in front of him, allowing simultaneous empathy and detachment, it is the connections formed, the brief glimpses into other lives and worlds that I remember most from past assignments. And while it might sometimes feel like meditating about spontaneity, it is these connections and glimpses I’ll write about in this blog.