Sometimes You Gotta Improvise

A couple of days ago, I was called to shoot some web content for a client. It was supposed to be a quick, down-n-dirty, get-in/get-out/get-paid kind'a thing. I hate when I'm told that. Words like those practically guarantees the Murphy's Law faeries will be having a good chuckle at my expense.

I needed to be at a condo complex nestled in the hills between the Warner Bros. lot and Universal Studios at 8:30 A.M. It was a rainy day so I left a bit earlier than usual, hoping to increase my chances of arriving on time. It's about a 20 mile drive which means, in L.A. in the morning, about an hour or more in ridiculous traffic. The L.A. freeway demons must have been on a coffee break while I headed towards my destination: I arrived 5 or 10 minutes before my hoped-for ETA! (Although it still took over an hour-and-a-half to travel those twenty miles.)

I've shot at this condo before. In fact, many times before. This is the way this gig works: I rendezvous with the model at the condo. We exchange a few pleasantries before we trek upstairs to the actual condo we'll be shooting in. (It's on the third floor and way, WAY in the back of the complex.) No one actually "lives" in this condo. I have a key and an entry code. I should mention that this "condo" is one of those pads I would more accurately describe as an apartment. But since people buy these "apartments" for ridiculous sums of money, they call them "condos."

While the model applies her makeup, fixes her hair, and puts on whatever sexy clothing I've chosen from all the stuff she's brought with her--usually in a steamer trunk-sized suitcase-on-wheels--I set up my lights and prepare my camera. Yep. That's how this gig works: Just me and the sexy model, alone, in a vacant, sparsely-furnished, condo where, even though I've usually never met the girl before, she ends up in her birthday suit striking sexy "come hither" poses while I digitally capture all her naked beauty, allure, and over-the-top come do me charms for the benefit of horny internet surfers. The images aren't supposed to showcase the photography: They're about the models and, in fact, keeping everything on the clean, simple, straight-forward, flatly-lit, non-artsy side is what the client is looking for. It's that kind of gig.

Anyway, back to the other day: It's a bit before 8:30 A.M. and I'm standing in the rain looking for my model. She wasn't there. Even though I didn't know who she was or what she would look like, I knew I'd be able to spot her, assuming she was there... which she wasn't. I wasn't much concerned at the model's absence. Models running late isn't automatic cause for alarm. Happens all the time. After all, it was raining, the traffic sucked and just because I arrived on-time doesn't mean the model would as well.

9:00 A.M. Still no model. I called my client. He answers. I began explaining the situation but he interrupted me.

"She canceled, dude. She flaked. I meant to call you. Sorry. I'm trying to get the agency to send a replacement. Hang tight."

"Hang tight? That'll take an hour or two," I said, now becoming somewhat alarmed. "You meant to call me? When were you going to do that?"

"Please. Jimmy. Just hang tight. I'm all over this. It's under control."

"Okay," I said, already resigning myself to most of the day being screwed over a gig that should only take a couple of hours. "I'm going for coffee"

"Cool. Don't go too far. Keep your cell in your pocket."

"Yeah, like I'm gonna drive as far away as I can in the freaking rain and the f'd up traffic..." I didn't say... but I thought it.

Two hours and three coffees later-- Still no phone call from my client. I'm getting a little more than a little annoyed. I'm about to call my client back when, suddenly, my phone rings. It's someone from the agency.

"We just dropped Jennifer off in front of the condos."

"Okay," I said with some relief. "Call her and tell her I'll be there in ten minutes."

I hang up. My phone rings again. It's my client.

"Dude! Where the f__k are you? The girl's waiting for you! You're supposed to be there!"

"No," I calmly answered. "You were supposed to call me when you got a replacement."

"Dude! Don't do this to me. The agent will get pissed if his girl has to wait too long. They left her there by herself!"

"Dude," I said, mimicking my client "First off, why are you giving me a hard time? I was there when I was supposed to be there. Second, I don't give a rat's ass if the agent gets pissed. His first girl flaked! And third, they didn't leave the girl on a street, alone, in the ghetto. She's in Studio City in a fairly ritzy part of town in broad daylight in front of some very high-rent condos!"

"Jimmy, please," my client said, now lowering his tone. "Please just get back there."

I hang up and drive back to the condo. It's still raining. In fact, it's hailing. Hail in L.A. Go figure.

I arrive to find Jennifer waiting in the foyer just inside the main door to the complex. As expected, she has her modern-day steamboat trunk with her. We head up to the condo. As I mentioned, it's on the third floor and way in the back of the complex. I'm laden like a pack-mule with gear. She's pulling her trunk-on-wheels. We might look like a couple just coming home from a trip or a vacation except she's about thirty years younger than me. But hey! It's L.A. You see that all the time except, when you do, the guy has a way fatter wallet than I do.

Once inside the condo, I turn the portable heaters on. The central heat doesn't work in this place. Jennifer opens her steamboat trunk and starts showing me her outfits as she peels off the clothes she's wearing. She's hot. I don't simply mean hot as in sexy hot. (Which she is.) She's hot from lugging her trunk (with fifty or sixty pounds of slutty outfits and accessories packed within it) on the long trek to the condo. The sudden rise in temperature radiating from the portable heaters is adding to her overall hotness.

I pick out some especially slutty stuff from Jennifer's vast, mobile, wardrobe of slutty stuff. Yeah. It's that kind of web site.

Jennifer, now completely naked while standing in front of a mirror and applying her makeup, occasionally speaks to me with her sexy Czech accent. I answer her, not sure how well she understands American English, as I go about my business of setting up my lights and prepping my camera. She's almost ready when I realize I can't find my radio strobe triggers. I begin tearing through all my camera bags but still can't find them.

"I need to go down to my car," I tell Jennifer. "Hang tight. I'll be right back."

I head out the door wondering if "hang tight" translates into Czech.

It's pouring rain as I rummage through my car. I still can't find the freakin' radio triggers.

"Shit!" I shout out loud, contemplating a full-tilt, public, juvenile melt-down. (After all, the first model flaked, I'm running hours late, I'm standing in the rain and I can't find my triggers. Sounds to me like a good reason to throw a fit.)

A couple of striking writers, holding their "WGA On Strike" signs over their heads like cardboard umbrellas, are walking briskly down the street towards the Warner lot. They glance at me with some alarm. I stare back with a dead-pan expression. "What???" I shout at them. They quickly look away and scurry towards their destination, apparently not wanting to provoke the pissed-off lunatic standing in the rain. Writers. What do they have to strike about? They should try being photographers!

Back in the condo. I call Leesa.

"I can't find the damn triggers."

"Did you look in the camera bag?"

"No. I didn't think to look there, Leesa. I thought I'd look everywhere they shouldn't be just so you could suggest I look where they should be."

"And I'm supposed to do what about this?" Leesa asked, remaining cool and calm.

"Would you look through the office?" I asked. "They supposed to be in that little black bag and the little bag is supposed to be in the big camera bag but it's not. I've tore the bag apart looking for it. It must have fallen out or it got left at those people's house where we shot on Sunday."

I wait.

I wait some more.

The model is looking at me quizzically. I gesture to her that I'll be off the phone in a minute. I'm pretty sure my gesture translates into Czech. Leesa returns to the phone.

"They're not here," she twangs. (Leesa is from Kentucky where twanging is commonplace.)

I'm now getting, uhhh... a bit short with Leesa. "What do you mean they're not there? They have to be there! Either that or you left them at that house on Sunday."

Leesa still remains calm. "I didn't leave them anywhere. I'm sure they're either in the camera bag or they're in your car."

"They're not!" I responded with a bit more zeal than I intended. That's when I started ranting about how I didn't want to spend any money replacing them and how it was probably her fault they were missing and how she should pay better attention to where she puts stuff away after we shoot and...

I'm not sure at what point during my rant Leesa hung up on me. I noticed Jennifer was looking my way with a bit of apprehension.

"I have a little problem," I sheepishly explained to Jennifer, having now semi-composed myself. "I can't find my radio triggers. I'm going to have to improvise."

Jennifer stares at me a moment longer and then shrugs, turns away, and re-exams her lip gloss. Models aren't usually too interested in the technical problems photographers encounter. They just want to strut their stuff, earn their money, and go home.

So here's what I decided to do. I put my speedlite atop my camera and set it to manual. The monolight I was using as a main was modified with a 4' umbrella. Since I'd be keeping my mainlight behind me, and since the optical sensor on the monolight would be pointing at my back, I figured I could swivel my speedlite's head so it pointed behind me and would optically triggered my strobe when it fired. My mainlight would then optically trigger my backlight, which was another strobe, boomed behind the model and modified with a small umbrella. Since the backwards pointing speedlite wouldn't be adding much more than a bit of light bouncing off the walls and ceiling, I figured I could still meter my strobes the way I normally would except I'd be firing them optically with the speedlite (set to very low output power) instead of with radio transmitters and receivers. This worked out okay. It's not my preferred way to shoot but sometimes ya gotta improvise to get the job done.

Two hours later the shoot finally finished. It took up more of my day than I anticipated but, all in all, it wasn't all that bad. But I was very unhappy about my missing triggers! I tried calling Leesa again but, for some reason, she wasn't answering. Sometimes I truly despise the "Caller I.D." functions on phones these days.

When I got home, Leesa did her best to completely ignore me. She's pretty adept at that. I tried apologizing for ranting at her but, before I knew it, my apology started sounding like another rant. Leesa, still without a word, looked at me and got up, opened the camera bag, and, inside of about 5 seconds, found the little bag I keep the triggers in... albeit they were tucked away pretty well and they weren't EXACTLY where *I* always put them!

Silently and by myself, I ate my mid-afternoon lunch: Cold, poached crow.

The image at the top is Jennifer from the rainy day shoot. Canon 5D w/ 28-135, ISO 320, f/5.6 @ 125.