Page 3 of Chase Me If You Can
I had another minute! Can’t wait to see you next week!!
Her text is followed by at least five tornado emojis.
The newNature Shotseditor in chief, Carter Walsh, kicks off the call right at five. I’m not the least bit surprised when Wes pops up on camera a few minutes later. Of course he’s late. And of course he’s in his car, obviously distracted. I don’t know why he even has the camera on.
If Carter notices, it doesn’t show. He continues with his introduction, full of sound bites that had to have been written by the magazine’s marketing department. The contest is a first for them, and they’re excited to partner with such talented photographers, as are the other sponsors, blah, blah, blah.
I tune out, texting with Tracy while we wait for them to get to the good part.
Weddings pay the bills, but there are only so many ways to shoot a bride walking down the aisle. Only so many ways to photograph dresses and cakes and flowers when a client’s preferences come before artistic expression, especially when there’s one particular Pinterest shot list I now recognize by the font alone. After almost a decade, there’s still a lot about it I love, but it’s hard to feel the same creative satisfaction I had at the start.
And as a bonus, being on the cover of a magazine with international reach might be the thing that finally shuts my mother up. According to her, I’ve wasted enough time chasing storms when I should be chasing a husband. Despite my many assurances that it’s no longer the fifties—which evenshewasn’t alive for—it’s her favorite refrain.
“Right, now on to the rules,” Carter continues, drawingmy attention back to the call. “First and foremost, be safe out there. We don’t want to lose anyone over a photo.”
He pauses to let his words sink in. Storm chasingisdangerous, and though we all know it, it’s easy to shove to the back of your mind when your adrenaline is up. Experienced chasers can get caught off guard too—and some have, with deadly consequences.
My attention drifts toward the little square on my screen full of Wes’s face. He still isn’t paying attention, his brow furrowed and his mouth moving like he’s talking to someone off-screen. He’s back in his normal clothes, dusty Texas Longhorns baseball hat jammed low on his brow, a snug black T-shirt showing off the definition in his arms and chest, and familiar dark stubble once again coating his jaw.
“Only images shot this season are eligible. Final entries are due by July 1. Unlike some of our previous contests, this isoneentry per photographer. Any additional entries will be disqualified, so don’t try to sneak anything by us. Let’s respect everyone’s time with the number of you participating.” Carter levels a stern look at the camera. “Finally,Nature Shotsprides itself on featuring true-to-life images without heavy edits, and it’s our expectation that the winners of this contest share our position on this. Absolutely no AI will be tolerated.”
I nod along as Carter covers the technical details of the contest requirements. I’ve been a fan of the magazine since high school, when I first picked up a camera and thought maybe it could be a fun way to escape my house. The requirement to submit the digital negatives to prove they haven’t been heavily doctored is part of why I want to win this contest so badly—in the age of Photoshop, photography skills can be easily inflated.It’s much harder to snap the shot in camera without needing big adjustments in post. Winning would be irrefutable proof of my skill.
“All photos will be scored without the photographer’s name attached. For the winners, the terms of the contest allow us a first look at any photos you choose to license for a two-year period. You remain free to turn us down if we offer to run any of your photos, though we hope you’ll agree.”
Usually a downside to these things is that your rights to the images aren’t entirely your own. It’s why I’ve largely stayed away—I don’t want one of my shots to end up selling some product I’ve never heard of. ButNature Shotsis different. The sort of people I’d like to work with in the future, the brands that I’d actually want to partner with, put a lot of stock in photographers withNature Shotscredits.
It’s part of what makes this contest such a rare opportunity. There’s a big enough market for wedding photographers that plenty of us can exist even in the same city without worrying too much about taking business from one another.
Landscapes are altogether different. Making a living off this type of work requires almost constant publication and licensing of images, and there are a lot more photographers interested in the field than there are paying jobs.
There are also a hell of a lot more men than women, which has led to rampant misogyny that often goes unchecked. Though no one has ever admitted as much, I’ve long suspected the lastNature Shotseditor outright refused to feature female photographers. Not surprising from the guy who publicly called the #MeToo movementoverblown female hysteriaon a podcast.
Carter took over last year, so maybe things will bedifferent—and the blind judging means that any bias over gender shouldn’t be a factor.
“Keep in mind that we’re also looking for an image that tells a story. We want to feel something when we view your work.”
My mind whirls. Part of the magic of photographing storms is the duality of it. The power of nature to both heal and destroy. I’m not certain yet how to tell that particular story in a single frame, but my first instinct is to find foregrounds where I can create a juxtaposition between the delicate and the destructive.
After a review of “the lawyer stuff” the call wraps up. One final glance at Wes leaves me certain he hasn’t heard a word, his attention still on someone or something out of the frame and a hard set to his jaw.
I can’t focus on Wes. The contest is too important and I have too much left to do.
Chapter Two
It doesn’t take long tofinish up the last couple of photos and send the final images off to my remaining couples. My bags are mostly packed, with just about everything stacked next to the door for the morning. All that’s left is one last thing I’d really rather just…not.
Reluctantly, I open the text thread with my two younger brothers and take a deep breath.
Reminder that I leave tomorrow. Mom is your responsibility for the next six weeks. That means check on her. Repeatedly. The lawn NEEDS to get mowed so the HOA doesn’t fine her again. No repeats of her losing her shit on Mrs. Campbell in the driveway like last year.
Sam sends back the saluting emoji within thirty seconds. Eric types for so long I’m expecting a novel, but in the end, he just says,You give us this lecture every year. Mom is almost fifty. House hasn’t burned down yet.
Of course it hasn’t. I’ve spent my whole life running around with fire extinguishers—the metaphoricalandliteral kind.
I scowl at the screen. Eric is the older of my brothers at twenty-five, with a very selective ability to adult. When it comes to his business—an auto body shop he’s worked hard to turn into reliable income—he’s nothing but responsible. On the other hand, there’s not much difference between him and Sam, who’s two years younger and finishing law school, when it comes to managing our mother.
And she definitely needs managing.
