The Other Side of the Lens
by Michael Farnum
A wedding photographer by trade, I was recently subjected to the dreaded “Other Side” of the camera lens The proverbial cake table turned on me as I planned my own wedding at thirty-nine years old. Even photographing other peoples' weddings, I often feel akin to being strapped to the latest high tech thrill ride, the action non-stop, myself just hanging on for dear life hoping to capture perfectly the day's every magical moment—some painstakingly choreographed, others catching me and everyone else completely by surprise. An uninvited lakefront gale absconding the bride's veil. Little nephew Christopher dipping into the cake before the bride and groom have even arrived at the hall. Tequila-crazed Uncle Ronnie getting a little too friendly with the ladies on the dance floor. I could only imagine what my own one-way roller coaster ride on the Wild Wedding Express would reveal. Only suspected how excruciating it would feel to be bereft of my beloved Nikon. Or my Canon Rebel. Or my handy little Sony Cybershot (which I still planned on smuggling into the festivities despite the explicit prohibitions of my lovely fiancée, Cara. She often joked she had no intentions of competing with “Mrs. Nikon.” On further reflection, I don't think she was joking. )
No doubt I would feel almost naked. Even worse. Naked without a camera. But fortunately I had a plan. (Aside from no kids at the reception.)
“This will be the candid photo opportunity of a lifetime,” I secretly schemed. Just imagine the endless possibilities. A wedding shot from the groom's perspective. This was the stuff that could garner some primo cutting edge gallery buzz, a national award, perhaps even international recognition. What a boon for business! What a concept! Talk about a front row seat to the Wedding of the Century. Or at least the only wedding in which I'll be displayed in the hot-seated spotlight. Hopefully. I only had to keep my precocious little covert operation secret from my future bride. Or there may not even be a wedding. Of course, we still had to hire a professional. Just as a cover. Luckily, Cara's Uncle Keith knew a guy who worked for cheap. Plus, her daddy was paying for it, so it was no sweat off my cumber bun.
Needless to say, despite the best laid plans of groomzillas and brides, when our big day finally arrived things began to unravel right from the get-go. Not surprisingly, an endless gauntlet of distractions began to pop up, horribly subverting my solo photographic mission. With five kids between us, even a so-called normal day can seem like Mission: Impossible. Our nine-year old came down with the flu. Poor boy could barely walk, let alone get himself into the complicated couture labyrinth of that ten-piece monkey suit rental. While everyone dressed for the wedding, our fearless one-year old attempted a daring flight up the stairs, then took a frightening tumble. Luckily, there was no call for the emergency room. Only a nasty little bruise prominently displayed on the poor little guy's forehead. Won't that look great in pictures. Haven't even left the house yet, and already suffered two near-casualties.
And not even the Weather Channel had predicted a high of ninety-five degrees on the first Saturday of October. Somehow I had gotten roped into choreographing the music at our outdoor ceremony. (A terribly clever attempt by my soon-to-be-bride to sabotage my diabolic photographic plan? Had she somehow caught on to my top secret scheme?) Despite my thoughtful preparations, the humidity wreaked havoc with my specially burned wedding mix and portable CD player, causing an embarrassing but not fatal delay. Meanwhile, in all the confusion, somehow I lost track of my precious little candid taker; my irreplaceable moment capturer suddenly vanished without a trace. (Although, looking back on the bright side, at least I no longer had that strangely conspicuous pocket bulge impeding my slightly tight tuxedo pants.)
Had I left it at home? Had it fallen out in the mini-van as we waited for the fifty-police-car funeral procession to pass? Or even worse, was it forever lost in the perfectly manicured bougainvillea of International Friendship Gardens? What a nuptial nightmare! Talk about a wedding day disaster. Mama don't take my Kodachrome away!
Suddenly all matrimonial hell is breaking loose. Our little ones are jumping ship, bolting from the ring bearers' wagon in separate directions, social anxiety-prone Daddy's girl making a beeline for you-know-who. My family from Chicago still hasn't shown up? What's Cara's mother doing (hope she's not reading this) appropriating the front row? Along with her dozen highly behaviour-challenged adopted kids! No kids in the front row, no kids in the front row! (Definitely no kids at the reception.) Fire the ushers! My negligent nieces are now banned from the reception, too! Sister Michelle's not coming? She had a paralegal emergency? And she was giving dad a ride? My Uncle Danny who we haven't seen in ten years isn't coming because he can't bring his kids to the reception. Sorry, Mom. Is that an old girlfriend from like ten years ago sitting way in the back? Who invited her? Oh yeah, it was me. Still no music. Why hadn't we put more pressure on Cara's dad to hire that classical harpist and her back-up orchestra? Brant, did you remember the script for my vows, Mr. Best Man?
Hold everything, here she comes now, my one and only, my beautiful bride, gliding up the rose petal-scattered garden path like a wedding day dream. Thank you, Wedding Gods and Goddesses, somehow the music has magically kicked into gear. This is the moment we've all been waiting for. Now or never. She's never looked lovelier. I've never felt more complete. It's even more amazing than I imagined. Who needs a camera. This image will be etched forever in my mind. Eternal. Unforgettable.
Perfect.
Plus, I don't have to worry about measuring proper exposure. Wide angle or close-up lens. Untimely equipment failure. Some amateur camera jockey getting in my way, prematurely drunk Aunt Diane or somebody ruining my shot. Now all I have to do is remember the vows I was supposed to have memorized weeks ago. (And hope our photographer has a decent eye. Get a good close-up, get a good close-up! Not of me, of her . . . Thanks, Daddy. Trust me, someday it will come in real handy having a wedding photographer in the family.)
And, boy, what fun I'm going to have monkeying with that other photographer's wedding pictures. Too bad they won't be ready in time for our week-long honeymoon. What am I going to do to kill all that free time in Puerto Rico?
Meanwhile, untold hours later, lovingly hovering over the steaming, bubble-brimmed whirlpool tub of our private wedding night love nest, sporting little more than a dainty, little camera strap, my beaming bride magically produces my long-lost Cybershot.
“Say cheese, Camera Boy!”
Be advised, future grooms, your future brides will always get in the last word.
Take my advice: let 'em.
