GOTCHA!

            by Jim Freund

© 2011

             It’s a scene much like the opening shot in Woody Allen’s Broadway Danny Rose. Remember Woody’s film? – half a dozen comedians seated around a table at the Carnegie Deli in New York City, reminiscing about oddball situations. Today, it’s four photographers, in a booth at a Manhattan coffee shop, discussing their craft over dessert while sprinkling in a few personal anecdotes.

            The subject matter moves from f-stops to digital-vs-print, from wide angle to macro, and then Arnold steers the conversation onto a new track.

            “When I’m shooting in New York, my favorite pictures to take are juxtapositions. I try to squeeze two contradictory, or at least contrasting, images into a single frame. It makes for great irony.”

            “I know what you mean,” says Blair. “I once got a great shot of a guy collecting garbage in the foreground, with the façade of Tiffany’s as a backdrop.”

            “That’s just what I have in mind,” Arnold replies. “A shot like that symbolizes the highs and lows you see all around town.”

            Carter chimes in. “I’m with you both. One of my favorites was the snap I got of chalked stick-figures on the pavement in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

            “That reminds me,” says Dodge, “of the day I walked by Gray’s Papaya stand, and there was this huge white stretch limo parked in front. It’s moments like that when it really pays to have a camera with you.”

            Arnold regains the floor. “Sometimes, like with the stretch limo, the shot just jumps out at you – all you have to do is point the camera. But more often, you need to do something to set it up.”

            “You mean change the angle or the perspective?” asks Dodge.

            “I’m talking about more than that,” says Arnold. “You’re walking around, you see something that’s symbolic, and you think – ‘Oh, boy, would I like to find something else here that’s incongruous, and then squeeze it into the frame to make a striking contrast.’ So you look around, but if nothing pops up right away, you wait there a while and hope for the best.”

            “Yeah, a little patience can really pay off – not that I always have it,” says Carter. “At least not like those wildlife photographers, who sit all night in the woods, waiting for a spotted grey wolf to show up. . . .”

            Blair nods. “The thing is, you don’t always know exactly what you want to enter into the frame to furnish the contrast – you just hope that when it does, you’ll make the connection and grab a good image.”

            “But sometimes,” says Arnold, “you do know exactly what you want” – and here he pauses for dramatic impact before finishing the sentence – “and that reminds me of my strangest day on the trail of a juxtaposition.”

            “Uh, oh,” says Carter, “here comes another of Arnold’s wild and woolly tales. . . .”

            “Hey, fellows,” says Arnold, surveying his buddies, “I guarantee you’ll like this one. Just give me the floor for a few minutes.”

            The other three men nod dutifully, take bites of pie and swigs of coffee, and settle back to hear Arnold’s adventure.

            “Okay, here goes. A few years ago, I found myself in midtown, camera in hand, approaching a theatre marquee where Beauty and the Beast was playing. Click! The light bulb went on in my brain. Wait right here, I thought, until a really mismatched couple stroll by, and snap them just passing below the marquee.”

            Dodge interrupts. “Wait a second. When you use the word ‘mismatched,’ do you mean with each other – like in the title? Or are you talking about mismatched with the title itself – in which case, the couple would have to be either two beauties or two beasts?”

            “Hmm, I never thought of it that way,” answers Arnold. “I guess I was looking for a direct match for the title, not a mismatch – in which case, the juxtaposition wouldn’t be ironic but complementary . . . .“

            “Well,” says Blair, with just a whiff of sarcasm, “I’m glad we got that straightened out. . . .”

            Arnold, imperturbable, resumes his narrative. “Anyway, after about thirty minutes of waiting time, when I was just about to give up, a couple suddenly hove into view that fit my specs precisely. The woman was tall, blonde and blowsy-looking. The guy was short, dark and really ugly. I hoisted the camera – it was all set for lighting and dimension – and click! I got the perfect shot.”

            Arnold pauses to take a spoonful of his rice pudding.

            Carter says, “That’s it – that’s the whole story?”

            Arnold swallows hastily and replies, “No, no, of course not. That’s just chapter one.”

            “I should hope so,” says Dodge.

            “So, after getting my great image, I felt entitled to a reward – and I stopped by a nearby tavern, sat down at the bar, and ordered a martini.”

            “One of those would be nice now.” says Dodge.

            “That’s not exactly a specialty of this diner,” Blair responds.

            “Anyway, I’m enjoying my solitary cocktail, when a short little guy hoists himself up on the next barstool. I turn sideways to look at him, and whaddya know – it’s the ugly bozo I just shot walking under the marquee.”

            “Okay,” says Carter, “now the story is getting better.”

            “It’s about time,” says Blair.

            “Ugly orders a beer and then turns in my direction. ‘I’ve gotta ask you a question,’ he says. ‘You’re a photographer – so am I. I saw you take a picture of Maisie and me earlier today.’ ”

            “Gotcha!” says Carter.

            “I don’t reply, so Ugly goes on. ‘At first, it puzzled me why you were taking the shot. So, after I dropped Maisie off at her manicure shop, I walked back to where you snapped the photo. I looked up and saw the marquee. And then it hit me.’ ”

            “This lensman was no dope,” says Dodge.

            “The little man took a sip of his beer and continued. ‘I’m a small ugly guy, Maisie’s     big and gorgeous, the marquee reads Beauty and the Beast – you were juxtaposing, weren’t you?’ ”

            “Caught in the act,” says Carter.

            “Well, he had me. What could I do? I put on my most apologetic face and confessed to what I’d been up to.”

            “That was the right thing to do,” agrees Dodge. “When they catch you, ’fess up.”

            “I disagree,” says Blair. “I would have told him I was shooting the marquee as part of a series on theatre marquees, and he and his Maisie just happened to pop into the shot.”

            “Okay, guys,” says Carter, “cool it and let’s hear the rest of Arnold’s adventure – assuming there’s more.”

            “There is,” says Arnold, warming to his tale. “Ugly heard me out, took another sip of his beer, and then said to me, ‘Well, I could get mad and belt you around. I might even sue you, if you try to print the shot. But that’s not my nature – I’d much rather get even. You took an embarrassing picture of me – I want to take one of you. That’s fair, isn’t it?’ ”

            “Sounds fair to me – and better than getting belted,” says Dodge.

            “That’s what I thought, too – assuming it didn’t get out of hand. Ugly assured me he wouldn’t publish it anywhere – ‘It’s not for publication,’ he said, ‘just for satisfaction.’ So I agreed to let him do it.”

            “You’ll be sorry . . .” says Blair.

            “Now Ugly downs the rest of his beer, gets off the stool, and says, ‘Meet me tomorrow afternoon at exactly 4:55 on the northwest corner of 37th and Broadway – and bring your camera along.’ ”

            “This guy sounds like he means business,” says Dodge.

            “Yeah,” Carter says, “he’s already figured out what he’s gonna do to you.”

            “So, the next day at 4:55, I show up on the northwest corner of 37th and Broadway with my camera. Ugly is already there, with a digital Nikon around his neck. He’s all business – no small talk. Ugly positions me and then tells me, to put the camera up to my eye – as if I’m taking a picture – and to point it at the street corner. Ugly then moves to a spot about ten feet away, facing me and the corner.”

            “The corner, the corner,” says Blair – “I get it. Something you can’t see now is about to materialize, coming from the far side of the corner. . . .”

            “You got it. After less than a minute, a guy comes into view from around the corner. He’s middle-aged, dressed in tatters, disheveled, with long hair and a scraggly beard. He’s hobbling on a crutch because he only has one leg – the other is just a stump. The guy is holding a tin cup, and on his chest, hanging from a cord around his neck, is a hand-lettered sign that says, ‘Please help a Vet – a Vietnam War amputee.’ ”

            “A sad sight,” says Carter.

            “The Vet, who hasn’t seen me or Ugly yet, spies an older man coming his way – so he stops on the corner and holds out the cup. I’m pointing my camera at the scene. The older man goes right up to the Vet and puts a dollar bill into his cup. As he does, I hear a click from Ugly’s camera.”

            “Wait, lemme visualize this,” says Dodge. “The older man is putting money in the Vet’s cup, and you’re pretending to photograph the scene. . . .”

            “Exactly. A few seconds later, as the older man passes by Ugly, I see Ugly hand him a ten dollar bill. Ugly then comes over and, holding out his camera’s digital screen, shows me the shot he got.”

            “I have to admit it’s a beaut – one person (the older man) is supporting the amputee Vet with badly needed funds, while the other person (me) is exploiting the amputee Vet by photographing him begging for money. ‘And there,’ says Ugly to me with a flourish, ‘there’s your juxtaposition!’ ”

            “Oh, yes,” says Carter, “that’s a shot I wish I’d taken.”

            “Good story,” says Dodge.

            The waiter approaches the table. “Any of you guys want anything else?”

            Blair replies for the group. “No, we’ve just finished listening to one of Arnold’s tales. You can bring the check.”

            “But wait,” says Arnold, “that’s not the end of the story. All of a sudden, the Vet turns toward Ugly and me and calls out, ‘Hey, you guys, come on over here. I see you each have a camera – what’s going on?’ ”

            “Uh, oh, that’s not a good development,” says Carter.

            “Ugly and I confer quickly. We decide not to lie, but instead tell the Vet the whole story – which we proceed to do. And then each of us drops a five dollar bill into his cup.”

            “An inexpensive modeling fee,” says Blair.

            “The Vet listens to our explanation, looks scornfully at our money offering, and says, ‘Do you think a couple of bucks pays for my mortification?’ His voice is cracked, the eyes a little wild, and I’m beginning to worry he may get violent – go after us with the crutch.”

            “Not only the crutch,” says Dodge. “He may have a spare grenade or bayonet tucked in his rags.”

            “Yeah, anything was possible. But then the Vet says, ‘You’re lucky I’m not vengeful. I just want some satisfaction. You guys are fixated on getting a really ironic photo – forget it. In fact, I want you to put your cameras down on the pavement for a minute, while I tell you what I have in mind.’ ”

            “Ugly and I look at each other, decide that the Vet wants us to give our full attention to the stern lecture he intends to deliver, and place our cameras down on the pavement.”

            “Don’t tell me the Vet is going to smash your cameras to smithereens with his crutch,” says Blair.

            “I guess that thought did cross my mind – especially when the Vet says, ‘Now, what’s the worst thing that can happen to you photographic guys?’ ”

            “There go your cameras,” says Dodge.

            “We don’t reply, so the Vet gives us a crooked smile and supplies his own answer. ‘I’ll tell you what the worst thing is – it’s missing out on the best picture of the year. . . . And fellows –’ he says, as he undoes the folds of his short pants leg, pops out his hidden limb, slides the crutch under his arm, empties the cup into a coat pocket, rips the sign from around his neck, and strides off around the corner – ‘you just did!’ ”