Tiffany lamp, scanned from the catalog.

I was shooting for a catalog at an auction house.

As far as photography gigs go, this one was exceptionally cool. Every day was a learning opportunity. Picture photographing everything from a 17th century chest to a Tiffany lamp worth $25,000. That was a typical day.
The auction house would assign one of the specialists to work with me. One day, it was an account executive who knew a lot about paintings. Another day, an expert on Italian glass. They would tell me what to shoot, and then hang out as I photographed the item. Of course, I asked a lot of questions about what I was shooting. And I tried to absorb as much as I could.

Once I was photographing ceramic items, when I was handed two small black and white objects. “What are these,” I asked, joking, “Picassos?”
Yes, I was told. Those are by Picasso.

It was that kind of a job.

Another catalog was mostly paintings. We were hanging painting after painting on a nail on a post to be photographed. As I hung one, I asked about the background of the artist. This one had an interesting back story. It was painted by the brother of a familiar artist. The person who painted this image was better then his brother, and had taught his brother. But the brother became famous, while the guy who had created the image that I was looking at, had languished in his brother’s shadow.
However, all of that was starting to change. The teacher was finally getting credit for his work. I asked the executive how much they could expect this particular piece of art to get at auction, as I was trying to get it to catch onto the nail.

“Around $75,000,” he said.
I inhaled, and made sure that it wouldn’t come off.

I could tell that the auction house liked me, because I kept on getting invited back to shoot more items. I – in turn – loved working there. It combined my love of historic items with photography. Not a bad gig.

One day, as I was setting up a shot, one of the senior members of management came in. They had that look on their face. You know, the kind that says, “Pretty please?”
They asked if I could work late that night. “How late?” I asked.

It turned out that they wanted me to do a location shoot. They told me that it wasn’t that far away, but that they didn’t know how many items, exactly, I’d be shooting. It was in a client’s home. A well to do client’s home. A very well to do client’s home.

I agreed on 3 conditions. That they would provide the transportation, that they would feed me, and that they would make sure I had enough time to set up. They immediately agreed, and offered up a few of their employees to help me pack their van.

Now I was intrigued.

When I heard the address, my interest piqued even more: East on Lake Shore Drive. It took me a while to grasp that there was only one section of Chicago that they could be referring to. This was the golden part of the gold coast. I suddenly wished that I had dressed a little better than a t-shirt and jeans.

We get there, and drive up to the door. The doorman tells us that we can wait inside, that he’ll back up the van to the freight elevator. Inside, security immediately recognizes who we are. We unload a lot of equipment onto the elevator. I reach for the button to close the door… and discover there are no buttons. A voice fills the space: “Are you ready to go up?”

“Yes?” I say, in part answer, part question.

The elevator stops on the top floor. A stunning woman waits there. “Do you have anything that you can put your equipment on?”
“Pardon?”
“We have a very beautiful floor,” she begins to explain, “I was hoping that you’d have some blankets, or something, that you could put under your equipment?”
Oh no. She’s extremely anal. She seems nice enough, but already, I’m questioning why I stayed late. “I’ll be very careful?”
“Well… maybe I can find some towels or something. Would you use them, if I can give you something?”
“Sure.”
I say the words, but I realize that this might be a very difficult shoot. I move my lights around all of the time. It would become a pain in the butt if I had to move a towel every time I did so.

We start to unload the elevator, and I take a walk to the room that she’s speaking about.

And she was completely right. That was one fantastic floor. And by floor, I mean, a work of art that you just happen to step upon.
She explains why its so beautiful. It turns out that it was made by students at the School Of the Art Institute. They had designed it out of various small shaped pieces of different types of wood. They created a large mosaic pattern that made up the floor. I couldn’t even guess how many hundreds (thousands?) of pieces they had laid down. When the floor was finished, they sanded it flat. And then the real work started. They coated it with a polyurethane, let it dry for 24 hours, and then sanded it. Then they repeated that process again. Day after day after day. For a month.

The floor looked like it had a piece of glass sitting on top of it. But it wasn’t glass. It was a thick, gorgeous, layer of clear… protecting the amazing wood that lay underneath.
Oh.. and that was just the floor.

A confidente; the main item I was sent to photograph, on said floor

The room itself was adorned with various pieces of antique furniture. Any one of them could have made it into the catalog. Particularly the grand piano.

I took a moment.

I literally walked around the room, and stood in every corner. For a while, I was just playing a photographer, standing in various places to figure out the best angle to photograph the room. I needed to reset my brain. I suddenly started to grasp just how well off this couple was.

-And then I went to work.
Photography, I could handle. As long as I focused on my job, I’d be okay. I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. I wouldn’t feel out of place.

The couple couldn’t have been nicer. The account executives from the auction house were tripping over each other to be their best friends. I started to hear about the couple themselves. They had bought the entire building a long time ago, and decided that they would live on the top floor. It was worth upwards of $6 million.
As I set up the room, they asked me if I wanted “anything to eat.” I paused. I’m not a foodie. If they bought out Foie gras, or anything unfamiliar.. I wouldn’t know what to do. I think I said “no.” The man of the house, being the nice guy he was, tried again. “Pizza?” he asked.
Yes. Now we were friends.

While waiting for the pizza, I finished the first shot. It was the Confidente in the image above. The image was a lot more complicated then it (hopefully) looks. There is a big softbox on the right side of the camera. Another softbox out of view on the far left side. A small light just to my left to light up the closest part of the Confidente. A light that is using a narrow grid to light up the side of the piano, far away. And in the corner, where you see a lamp lit up? that’s a special strobe that goes off when all of the other strobes go off.

I took a Polaroid to check the lighting. Everyone gathered around me to see what it looked like. The appraisers approved. The person who hired me approved. But most importantly, the man who owned the place loved my work. He gave me great compliments on my lighting, and how I picked “just the right angle” to capture everything in the room, while still putting the focus on the Confidente.

Pizza came. The appraisers sat around a table in a breakfast nook with the couple who owned the place. The couple asked me to come and join them, and I politely obliged.
Now keep in mind, I’m dressed in my usual t-shirt and jeans. I’m the least dressed person there, and feeling just a little out of place. All I wanted was to finish my food and get back to photography. But the couple were great hosts, and wanted to know more about me.

We talked briefly, and then I got back to work. It was only a few images, but I wanted to make sure that everything looked its best. After all, I didn’t want to have to tell the executives that I had to go back to take more photos. The entire time, the couple compliments me on my work, and the man keeps enumerating all of the things that he likes about my photos.

Did I mention that this man owned hotels? Yeah… I forgot to tell you that part.

So I finish taking pictures, and I break my equipment down as quick as possible. Its late, and I don’t want us to overstay our welcome. Everyone is thrilled with the pictures from the Polaroids that they’ve seen, and as I grab the one bag that I’m taking with me, the couple both shake my hand while delivering more compliments.
And then he asks me that question.
He’s owns hotels. He is very wealthy. And after telling me repeatedly about what a great photographer I am, he asks:
“Do you have a card?”

I did not have a card. If I could have, I would have run down to the nearest Kinkos while telling him that “its in my car” and that I’d be right back. But the truth was that I had run out of cards, and I needed to order some more.

“That’s okay,” he says. I can send him one.

My heart sank.

Now don’t get me wrong. I did send him one. But we all know that card was probably lost in transit between his secretary and him. And let’s face it… there’s nothing like handing a card to someone who has just delivered a major compliment to you on your work. Particularly a someone who owns hotels.

To this day, I don’t care where I am. I have a card on me. If I’m at a party, on a date, or just out with friends… I have a card on me. For a while, I even carried cards while I was running.

Because when a very wealthy man is showering you with compliments, and asks you for your card? You better fucking well have a card.
Or, trust me, you’ll feel like a dumbass for the next ten years or so.