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“Ah-ah-ah,” she scolded, wagging a finger at us. “None of that misery please. This isn’t meant to humiliate you, but to grow your eye and your skills.”
We all ranged out at the various tables and chairs, a few of the other students looking almost as green-gilled as Donnie. Marta walked around slapping packets of papers down in front of us. Each page of the packet had a number on it.
“Each number corresponds with a photo. For the first fifteen minutes, I’d like you all to go around the room, taking notes on each of the photos. What do you like about them? What are their strong points? What weaknesses and room for improvement do you see? This isn’t an opportunity to bash your fellow classmates. This isn’t evenaboutyour classmates’ pictures. It’s about you, andyourrelationship with the camera, with framing, light, and development. Not your classmate’ actual photos. This isn’t personal. Do you understand?”
That all sounded fine and dandy, but I felt certain everyone in the room was going to take every criticism personally.
“Let’s begin.”
Walking around the room, looking at the photos and jotting down my thoughts was the easy part. I had enough opinions to fill an ocean. It was a question of whether I had the guts to share any of those less-than-positive thoughts with anyone.
“All right. Time’s up.” Marta waved us back to our seats. “Who wants to go first?”
Heads turned, gazes bounced around the room landing on nothing. No one seemed to want to start.
“All right, I’ll choose,” Marta said, pulling up a chair and sitting on it backwards. Her silver hair shone as she peered around the room. “Peter.”
“Me?” I pointed at myself.
“You’re the only Peter in here.”
My palms went sweaty. “This is my first college-level photography course. Maybe someone with more experience should go first.”
She clucked her tongue. “I think you know how to say what you like and don’t like about a photograph.” She rolled her hand in the air. “Stop stalling.”
I cleared my throat. “All right. Um.” Choosing a photo I’d written down positive things about, and something innocuous for the suggested improvement, I steadied myself so that when I spoke, my voice sounded stronger than I felt. “So, for Photo 9…”
The room tensed. I didn’t look up from my notes for fear of meeting the gaze of whoever had taken the shot of the bird in a cage coated with uncleaned droppings.
“The composition was good. It pulls out emotions of empathy and sadness, as well as illustrating the beauty of the bird against the ugliness of the cage. The depth of field was handled well. I think it was taken on 200 speed film, and maybe it could have been pushed to 400. But otherwise, it’s a good shot.”
“Okay. And why did you think they should have pushed the film speed?”
“To grab the shadows.”
Marta nodded. “Anyone else have notes to share on Photo 9?”
No one did. So that was that. No one screamed. No one cried. I’d said my piece and now we were moving on.
“How about Photo 5?” Marta asked.
That was one of mine. I sat up straighter, bracing myself.
“Todd, you’re awfully quiet today. What did you think of Photo 5?”
“It’s bullshit.”
My flinch was instant.
Marta’s brows went up, and I expected her to scold him. She’d stated this wasn’t an opportunity to bash your fellow students. Gaze drifting over to my photo, I wondered, was it bullshit? I’d taken it at Tilt-a-Whirl, capturing Barry behind the bar as Minty and Windy did shots. Their faces twisted up at the burn of the liquor while their skin shone with sweat and glitter. Two guys kissed in the background. Barry cleaned a beer stein, the sheen of sweat glistening on both the glass and his dark skin.
“All right. Strong stance. Why’s it bullshit?” Marta asked. “You’ve got a vocabulary. Use it.”
Todd, a solid, burly guy with a patchy beard, bristled. “It’s a political agenda. Not art.”
Marta went over the photo, brought her glasses down from the top of her head, and made a show of looking at every inch of my photo. “Hmm, I’m not sure I see where it tells me to vote for any candidate. What makes this political, in your opinion, Todd?”
“The guys kissing.”
