The Carnival Papers

The Ridgemont Marathon

You’ve never seen me, but you’ve seen my work.  Flip through the photo safari of Kenya in National Geographic or look up at that poster in your office, the one with “Perseverance” in bold letters and a snow-covered mountain underneath it.  You might have even seen the caption “Photo by Frank Hemsky” and not paid it any attention, but for twenty-five years I’ve been all over the world as a freelance photographer.

Today I’m outside Bad Axe, Michigan, ankle-deep in snow, my boots taking on water faster than the Titanic and the smell of cow dung making my eyes water.  Back in Los Angeles, I’m sure my ex-wife Tracy is lounging on the deck I bought, which she felt entitled to take from me in the divorce, along with the rest of the house, the Lexus, and our albino bulldog Frosty.  While Tracy lies in the sun, the breasts I bought her stuffed in a bikini, her latest boyfriend is no doubt spending my alimony on eighteen holes at the country club.  And I’m standing in a slushy cornfield, bundled up in a parka and trying to figure out how to shoot the “historic” barn in front of me.

I’ve photographed everything from Everest to the Great Barrier Reef, and I can assure you there’s nothing special about this barn.  It’s made of wood painted in the traditional red with white trim and a green roof.  Inside is a herd of dairy cows and my first big decision is whether I want to ask Farmer Brown to let the cattle out to get them in the shot.  My second dilemma is if I should begin shooting now, in the early morning light, or wait an hour for the sun to get higher in the sky.  At least it’s a clear day; the forecast calls for rain this evening, but I should be in Saginaw by then to get on a plane bound for LA.  Then I’ll have just enough time to take a nap, shower, and microwave a cup of soup before I head out on another assignment.

It’s not so easy, though.  One of the cows decides this is the perfect moment to make a dash for freedom and while the farmer and his two strapping sons chase down Bessie, I slog through the field to my rented Impala.  After I empty out my boots and smoke a cigarette, the fugitive animal is returned to the barn—it looks like the first decision has been made for me.  “Sorry about that,” the farmer says to me.  He posts one of his sons inside the barn to guard the livestock and sends the other into town for some lumber to repair the damage.

“It’s no problem,” I say and light a cigarette.  The incident leads me to make the second decision to take the damned pictures now and get the hell out of here.  I refuse the farmer’s help with my equipment—no one but me ever handles my gear—and head back into the field.

My boots are again becoming waterlogged as I set up, and I tell myself for the thousandth time what a fool I am for taking this assignment.  I thought it would be a good experience to come to the Midwest, the heartland of America, and reconnect with the country’s roots, but so far all I’ve reconnected with is the mud.  The drive out here to the Thumb, as they call it, was an endless stretch of snowy fields and bare trees, the fallout from winter.  Now as I’m shivering in this corn field, I can’t wait to put as many miles between me and the Thumb as possible.

After taking a couple of shots, I pack up the camera and slosh across the field to catch the other side of the barn and the silo rising up behind it.  Like the barn, the silo is nothing special, just a tower of brown stone capped by a silver roof that is reflecting the sunlight and making it difficult to set up my shot.  I drag my tripod through the muck until I find the right angle to keep the barn and silo without the glare.  For the last shot I trudge back to my car and focus on the front doors of the barn, in front of which is a plaque commemorating the barn’s centennial and its illustrious history.  There’s nothing significant about the barn’s past either, except that it has remained standing through one hundred years of tornadoes, blizzards, and floods—it could become a new symbol for perseverance.