Spring Prep

Because it's Monday, and because I was behind a bit on blog posts (and thus posted Saturday's and Sunday's today #betterlatethannever), I'm just going to leave you with this gem of a conversation snippet that I overheard at lunch today.  It's perfectly indicative of how nice the weather is here, and what the fashion reaction is to that weather.  I'll be pulling out my Sperrys and pastels tomorrow...


Conversation of the day:

Guy - I tried not to dress too preppy....
Girl (gives guy the once-over) - That's your version of not too preppy?!? You're wearing yellow shorts and a pastel polo with BMW's logo on it!

#epicfail


Until (not Monday),
Maggie

Photos and Four Inch Heels: A Wedding Story

Sunday:

Backstory: I'm a photographer by trade.  I took a B&W photo class in high school with a visionary of a professor, got into landscape/nature photography, founded a photo business the summer after my senior year of high school (2010), and went from there.  I've transitioned from nature photographer, to sports photographer, to photojournalist, to portrait photographer, and now work primarily as a fashion/beauty photographer, though I still shoot all other genres when the jobs roll along/when I feel like it.  I've also shot weddings, which are a blast and a combination of many of the above styles/skills, with the added bonus of people wrangling. Seriously: everyone wants formal portraits with the family and bridal party after weddings, but NO ONE wants to pose for them. Not ever. Hence, the people wrangling.

Today was the wedding of a friend of mine, Z.  Firstly, congratulations Z! Your wedding was a beautiful one, and impeccably well organized, particularly for a college wedding.  I am so honored that you asked me to photograph it, and I had a blast doing it!

For a photographer, weddings are some of the most fun but also most exhausting shoots.  They are never shorter than 6 hours worth of work (from preparation to reception, etc), there is inevitably drama of some kind, family wrangling to get formal portraits done is always a mix of a headache and a nervous breakdown, and then there is what happens after the day is over: post. "Post" or post-production work, refers to the selecting/editing/color correcting/cropping/retouching process that photographers go through after each shoot.  Every photographer does it differently, and shoots vary in length and in the type of editing required afterward, but weddings are both very long and very editing intensive.  They are doozies.  As a result, they usually pay the bills pretty well (unless they are friends and family, and then they don't).

The other thing that wedding guests might forget about photographers at weddings? They need to look nice.  Double standard aside, if you are a guy, it matters a little less. But a female photographer at a wedding? Lord, we need to be dressed and makeup-ed to the nines.  And we need to do this some several hours before the wedding actually starts, since our wedding day starts when the bride first begins to get ready.  You get the picture.  This often means we wear dresses, which can be expository affairs if the wind blows and your hands are busy with camera.  This also often means heels.

The wedding was a blast.  It was also 8.5 hours worth of work, netting some 1300 photos.  I thought myself reasonably well dressed and decently well makeup-ed (the makeup process gets a lot more interesting and requires a lot more strategy when a camera is mashed up against one's face for the better part of a day), and I even still looked sort of okay by the time I staggered back to my room and checked a mirror (though my friend said I had the eyes of a drug addict.  Thanks buddy).  But my oh my, were my feet tired.  The heels that I chose were in the neighborhood of 4 inches, and I've actually walked all around NYC in them because they are so comfortable.  What I forgot was that any pair of heels, let alone 4-inchers, become a lot less comfortable when one is carrying 25 lbs of gear for nearly 9 straight hours, without many breaks for sitting, and including several dashes after the bride/groom/wedding party/various guests.  Woah.  I only remembered this in the evening, when my work was done, and the adrenaline rush had faded.  I'm grateful that I love my work well enough not to have noticed before then.

When I got home, grinning from the beauty of the day and from a feeling of contentment with a good day's work, I changed out of my fancy clothes, into some sweatpants, and resolutely set out for the library.  This is the perfect encapsulation of my life: I switch back and forth between working professional and student, sometimes on a minute to minute basis.  I'm at lunch with friends, discussing class, when a client calls about a shoot, and I book a bus ticket to NYC.  It's how my life goes these days, but you know what? For as crazy and disorganized as it can be, I love it.  I love the juxtaposition between my two worlds, and how each reminds me of my appreciation for the other one. Upon my arrival at the (computer science) library, where I was meeting a friend to do homework, I sat down on the couch and promptly fell asleep. For 12 straight hours.  My friend, who we'll call V, said that he tried to wake me once or twice, but it wasn't working, so he went to bed on the other couch and let me sleep through till this (Monday) morning, when he was finally successful in waking me.  Thanks V! Better late than never!

Until tomorrow,
Maggie

Harbor waits for no one

Saturday:

Harbor waits for no one. Neither, apparently, do rugby meetings.

Backstory: harbor is a game of debauchery that takes place between 8 people (four teams of two) across 2 pong tables with one ball. It is played with paddles with no handles (the way any proper game of pong is played), and each team has "boats" - one of 6 cups, one of 5, one of 4, one of 3, one of 2, and a mine. The goal: hit/sink the cups in any other team's boat. If more than half the cups in any given boat are gone and you sink, you sink the boat. Don't sink the mine. Don't let people hit/sink your cups.

Naturally, harbor can be made interesting in all sorts of ways - alliances can be formed, and any sort of liquid you desire can be played with (water, fruit juice, straight whiskey, etc). The one fast and solid rule of harbor, outside of the basics? Harbor waits for no one. Maybe you have to go to the bathroom, maybe your partner wants to get a snack, or perhaps you remembered you had a problem set due in 19 minutes. I wish you luck on that problem set, but the game will not be stopping for you. It does not stop until it finishes. Harbor waits for no one. Better work on that problem set later so you don't leave your partner in the lurch. Better late than never, right?

Now that you've gotten a taste of this icon of Dartmouth culture, my story will be more relevant. After being awake late last night, in no small part because I live directly above the basement (ie the scene of this sort of debauchery) and because there was a game of harbor being played beneath my bed, with all the paddle-slamming and the screaming required of such an intensely competitive game, I found myself in need of a little mid-afternoon nap. Which I was enjoying, rather contentedly like a cat in the sun, until my floor started to shake. An earthquake, you ask? More delightful earthmovers working on the gargantuan pain-in-my-ass construction project in my backyard, also known as the Kappa Delta sorority house? Nay, I say. This particular earthquake can be attributed to the women's rugby team.

The women's rugby team has weekly meetings, much like a sorority might. This particular week, the women found it appropriate to hold these meetings on a Saturday mid-afternoon (day drinking anyone?), approximately 10 feet beneath my bedroom floor. Now, the women's rugby team prides itself on its strength, its singing ability, and its level of raginess. Also its undefeated season. But we'll leave that aside for now. The former three abilities were all featured prominently during Saturday's session of mid-afternoon debauchery, which woke me from a peaceful afternoon slumber, and left me groggily looking at my shaking paintings on my wall, somewhat confused before reality dawned on me, and wondering who had come up with the **creative** lyrics being sung. Oh my.

The moral of this story? Harbor, and rugby meetings, wait for no one. Collegiate fun, even if I live above it, waits for no one. But you know what? For as much as I might whine about it when it interrupts an afternoon nap, I'm actually happy that someone somewhere close by (read:10 feet under my bed) is having fun. It's a good reminder on days that feel like they are filled with never ending piles of work.

And the gargantuan pain-in-my-ass construction project in my backyard, also known as the Kappa Delta sorority house, which just this (Monday) morning began a new and unfortunate varietal of ear-splitting fun (hammering nails)? Well, I suppose I ought to thank them. They are the one noise I can't sleep through, which means when their house gets worked on, I wake up for class. Usually they start early enough, but better late than never!

Friday Night (insert emoticon here)

Note to reader: this was originally typed on a tiny iPhone screen while watching How I Met Your Mother, deciding to do something, and taking a shower. Unfortunately, it didn't save, or post. #fridaynightproblems

Hence the re typing. And the tardiness. Better late than never!

It's Friday night in a college town and I'm a college student - so that should mean something, right? Well maybe. It's 8:15 and that awkward time in between when college dining halls close and college students have cocktail hour (5pm? Hell no, we do 10). So I'm trying to figure out what to do now.

At the moment, I'm currently indulging in what we will call the Netflix Pastime, also known as sitting in your sweatpants and consuming large quantities of questionably decent television. Preferably while eating leftover pizza. It's my sister's birthday today (Happy Birthday C!) so in honor of her and her two cats, Barney and Marshall, I've started watching How I Met Your Mother. While I prefer Marshall in his feline form, Barney definitely takes the cake as my favorite character on the show - his combination of optimism, humor, troop-rallying, and a certain level of pathetic stupidity is delightful, evidently. I'm on episode 8 already.

Now it's 8:35 and I'm making moves towards doing something with this fine evening. Socializing is a human activity I should potentially make more of an effort to engage in, so I prepare to shower by pulling off a sock. After which I find myself distracted by the fascinating pile of things I should really deal with on my bed, and worry about getting them all taken care of. My Friday night starts to look like that of a depressive and single 40 year old woman, and I contemplate pulling out the white wine, but it takes a turn toward messy 21 year old boy when I slam that last slice of leftover pizza and decide that it is time to rage. Upon reflection, this may or may not be a wildly accurate description of the way most college students act, at least in Hanover NH.

We'll all grow up one day, I'm sure. But for now, in my senior spring, I'm going to channel my inner 21 year old boy, and make the most of my (fleeting) desire to be social. Growing up can wait. Better late than never, right?

Maggie

The (never quite so small) small moments

Today was the first day of spring.

There are those that argue that spring starts on the equinox in March, but in Hanover, NH, this is a finely hewn piece of fiction. Better late than never. Today, upon setting foot out the door, I took off my leather jacket, stuffed it in my bag, and let the wind billow my shirt as I slipped on my wayfarers and giggled in the sunshine like a child of summer. I passed several girls dressed as though they were afraid to hope for the actuality of spring: underneath the cute dresses and the flirty skirts, they still sported leggings and boots. A dear friend who I met for coffee was dressed much the same way, and I began to think that my Californian roots were pushing me prematurely toward short sleeves, but I was simply delighted that the sun was shining. Sleeves seemed an affront to the nice weather.

K and I took our coffee into the sunshine, and ended up settling on the stone steps of one of the oldest buildings on campus. The structure's white exterior glowed in the afternoon light, and reflected warmth onto our backs. Being set up a bit on a hill, the steps allowed us to overlook the hubbub that was the campus scene below us - students hurrying from one activity to another, families relaxing and enjoying the day on the green, people playing frisbee - life was proceeding with a vigor that could only come from the reappearance of grass, blue skies, and sunshine. 

It is the small moments that are the memorable ones, and sitting on the steps was one such moment. In that moment I found myself deeply at peace, and deeply grateful for many aspects of that moment - the beautiful scene that I was surrounded by, my friendship with the gorgeous and wildly talented person sitting next to me, my deep sense of inner peace, my access to a world class education, and my post collegiate plans. We both sat there and said, this is how we should be living. This is how life is supposed to be lived, and how our final term at this truly magical place should be. It was a moment of clarity that I think we both will act on.

No wonder the small moments are the most memorable. They are rarely as small as we name them, and they are the times in which we are most present. They move in slow motion because, for a rare moment, we are actually noticing and appreciating all that is occurring. They are the moments when inspiration is born, when clarity strikes, when the world seems both vast and minuscule at the same time, when time falls away and we are left, simply, with understanding and that often chased, ever elusive sense of grace.

I've spent the rest of the day smiling, re-enchanted with world. Better late than never.

Maggie

(Late) Beginnings

I got the idea to write this at about 5:30am in the midst of pondering whether or not to go to the gym, after spending all night sending my portfolio to clients, talking to my mother, contemplating starting my astro lab, and watching a netflix rom com about a woman (Sarah Jessica Parker) who manages a professional life and a family all at the same time. This one sentence probably tells you more about my life than any short biographical statement has any hope of doing. So here we are.

At the moment it is approximately 6:47am, and I'm writing this while walking precisely 3.8 mph on the treadmill. It's still early enough where there are mostly townies here (read: people who live in Hanover, NH who are NOT students), and thus the people watching that rivals that on Madison Ave has not yet taken hold of the gym. I'll admit, I'm as guilty of it as the rest; the girl on the elliptical next to me earlier looked like a frenetic chihuahua on a walk, and I can't help wondering whether or not she has ever heard the phrase, "resistance training." No matter. My face, which was rapidly transitioning from the hue of stewed tomato to overripe plum at the time, certainly could be mocked as much as chihuahua girl. But what am I saying - it would seem more relevant to discuss why on earth I've discovered the once fascinating but now plebeian art of writing a beat at 6:47am in the morning.

Well for starters, it wouldn't make sense any other way. My best ideas only ever come at weird hours of the day, or more likely, that space between night and day that college students refer to as the end of a good night out, and the rest of the world views as that time 30 mins before your alarm goes off, when you inevitably wake up and wonder whether or not to roll over or just get out of bed. 

Beyond that, however, it suddenly seems appropriate. I'm a senior in college, in my last quarter, graduating in June, and moving to New York, NY. On the corner today, listening to music post-workout, I was struck with a sudden pang of premature nostalgia that nearly took my breath away, and it occurred to me that this next year will probably be filled with more dramatic change than any I've had before, and let me tell you, there's been a lot of change in the last few.  I started college pre-med, and ended up a fashion photographer. Neat. It's a walking cliché to say that life will drastically change when you stop being a student and start being a professional, but it's true - in fact, the only time before then that life probably changes more dramatically is puberty - but you'd need to be a funnier, thicker-skinned, less self-conscious, and more self deprecating writer than I to deal with that. I have two words for you: hell no.

So for whatever reason, this morning at 'round about 5:30am, I had a moment of clarity: I'm going to start writing a (hopefully) daily and (potentially) humorous beat, if only to make myself laugh a little more each day and appreciate the small things. Any extra chuckles on your end are a bonus in my book. I've written this as I'm on the treadmill, getting a smoothie, drinking coffee, and sitting in a library that looks like a museum installation - again a decent summation of my life. I'm coupling this newfound writing shenanigan with eating better, working out on a regular schedule, and sleeping for a certain number of hours every day (though when those hours occur is negotiable). In college student language, this is called, getting your shit together before you leave college, though ironically, I'm doing it during senior spring, also known as, the time college students realize they are almost not college students anymore, and thus decide to throw their shit at the fan one last time.  Maybe I'll do some of that too, for good measure. Most people embark on this sort of thing 'round about New Year's, but per usual, I'm a little late to the game. So here we are.  Better late than never, right?

Until next time,

Maggie