Acoustic Photography
At friends’ and family weddings, I’m not often the official photographer. The stakes are way too high. And so I don’t have to race around to gather the clan for those post-ceremony group shots that can’t really be anything other than traditional and static.
But I do bring my camera.
I can roam, looking for details the primary photographer might miss. I usually know the folks who are closest to the couple, so I watch for their joy. The best of the designated photographers take these kinds of photos, too, but my low-key gig is easier because I can pause to drink champagne and get diverted by conversations and not feel I’m shirking my job. The pictures I snag are a surprise bonus for the wedding couple.
At dinner one night, my family and I decided that if I was going to pitch myself as a wedding photographer, the perfect name for my business would be Acoustic Photography.
I work in the same way when I’m photographing at public celebrations. Parades, Pueblo dances, rodeos. A fellow photographer once explained to me his theory of approach. We had two choices when taking pictures around people. We could be so conspicuous and predictable (photo vest, laden with lenses, in-your-face and unavoidable), that people dismiss us as harmless buffoons and ignore us—allowing us to do our work. Or, alternatively, we can melt into the background, be invisible, observe from the sidelines—the Henri Cartier-Bresson approach. You can easily guess I choose the latter approach.
4th of July Parade, Torrey, Utah
I get my best pictures when I’m behind the scenes, off to the side. Photographing the high school bands while they wait in line before the parade begins. Hanging out behind the kiva where the Pueblo kids play between rounds of dancing in the plaza. Perching on fences above the chutes to snag pictures of cowboys warming up before they ease onto their broncos. Gorgeously outfitted Native people waiting their turn on stage at the Santa Fe Indian Market Traditional Clothing Competition.
People are relaxed. They don’t pose, they don’t perform. These are public events, and by showing up, participants are open to being photographed. (For the Pueblo dances, however, I purchase a photo permit.)
Most of these subjects don’t notice me—or if they do, they don’t care. They are preparing for the event to come. When I make eye contact, I raise my eyebrows, nod, smile, query with body language and camera, to ask permission to keep shooting. If I have the chance, I’ll offer to send prints, and they often sign a release form when they give me their address.
Santa Fe Indian Market Traditional Clothing Competition (three photos)
And so I knew the name of the little girl on the cover of Our Voices, Our Land, a photograph I took at New Mexico’s Ohkay Owingeh (San Juan Pueblo) on Feast Day in 1984. Her mom signed a release, and I mailed prints. I was surprised and touched when I recognized her name as a new follower on Instagram in 2020. She even posted a photo of the book cover along with a recent picture of herself dancing in the plaza for Feast Day—36 years later.
I messaged her to tell her I’d seen her post—and that I was thrilled to close this circle all these years later. I received an amazing response:
Many thanks to you sir for capturing this beautiful image of one of my most cherished childhood memories. As you may have seen, I take great pride in my culture and traditions, so this image gracing the cover was a blessing in many ways. You stated in your message, you “believe it led readers to a little bit of the spirit of Native people in the Southwest,” I too believe this to be true. It led to readers wanting to learn and celebrate more of our people’s ways and honor our traditions. Seeing the beauty and wanting to understand our cultural ways. Such a heartwarming gesture. You had a hand in that movement, so I thank you, my family thanks you, my children thank you! Happy to be a friend and finally be able to express this to you. Blessings to you. ❤️
A print of the “cover-girl” photo hung in our daughter’s room when she was young. I told Dory that this was a picture of her Pueblo friend in New Mexico. Once, she asked, “Is she really my friend?” Now, instead of my generic answer about sharing our home landscape making friends of us all, I can say, clearly, unequivocally, “Yes.”
