Cany143 wrote:
Bright one sunshiny morning --it was either a Monday or a Tuesday-- I applied for the #2 mule position with Carleton Watkins. The position had suddenly come open as a result of a tragic mishap deep in the Sierra Mountains during which I'd pushed the previous #2 mule off a cliff, but we won't go further into that here. That was in the winter of 1853 (or maybe it was '54; I've never been good with dates or years or even the time of day, per se, but what mule is?), but apparently, none of my braying and balking held any sway with Watkins, so he didn't hire me.
Not long afterward, I applied for similar positions (team mule to haul wagon festooned with camera & darkroom apparatus) first for Tim O'Sullivan then later for Matthew Brady, but neither of them hired me either. Which I felt was their loss more than it was mine, because I could haul a wagon like nobody's business in my younger days, and their photographic output would've been SO much better if I'd been there to advise 'em in the artful ways of hauling glass plates and noxious chemicals and what-not.
Some might've called these above referenced job refusals setbacks, but not me. Some years later, after listing my accomplishments and experience and CV on-line via the somewhat trendy (for its day) --though admittedly niche-- 'Photo Mules For Hire' app, I got contacted by Alfred Stieglitz. He didn't need a mule, per se, but he did find the melodic braying of a mule soothing to his ear, so I relocated East and became thusly employed. My lengthy association with him --I believe it was almost eight days-- provided me with many contacts and opened many doors, and before long I got a position with Paul Strand. Shortly after I got that gig, I died (of either fixer or selenium fumes, I've never been sure which it was), and got melted down for glue.
My first camera was a Polaroid Swinger. I didn't buy it; it was gifted to me.
Bright one sunshiny morning --it was either a Mond... (
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