I am a Journalist.
But then what?
by Andy Abeyta
I have been excited about this blog since the moment I read the original idea in a Facebook message yet it has taken weeks for me to commit, allowing “JGRAD_INTRO.docx” to live on my desktop. Take that as your first clue of where I am in life.
I could lie to you and tell you it was a lot to consider, a lot to take in, that this has been my creative process and I’ve thought long and hard drafting my words each day, finally culminating in the artful exploration of a millennial tackling the dream of a journalistic career. But that would be a load of utter shit.
Truth is, yes, I’ve been thinking about this blog non-stop, but I’ve been too nervous to write. Not for fear of my skills as a writer (though I am certainly a photographer for a reason), or for fear someone may judge me or disagree with me. Simply because I have been too afraid to commit to my own words – especially words describing who I am and what I’m doing right now.
I’m not sure if the above is an explanation, justification, exhibition of self-deprecating humor, or what, but it is the most honest way I can dive into this.
[Photo by Will Saunders]
For many of us, our biggest fears come with major life changes. From the training wheels coming off, to moving out of your childhood home, graduating college, and attempting to scale the gruesome cliff that is the real world when you are spit out beyond the safety and comfort of campus life.
Graduating was a whole new animal to me. If I’m honest with myself, confidence has never been my strong suit. And well, when you are a photojournalist that can be a bit of an issue. Photojournalism is personal. Most people might assume I mean that for the person the camera is facing… but really I find it to be massively personal for the shooter as well. Especially with photos you worked for hours to make, carefully waiting out moment after moment to line up the shot, then bam. It’s public.
So imagine my anxiety when I realized what it meant to be out of school. To realize that my work wouldn’t just dictate the grade a professor wrote in red ink. Now I would have to grapple with the idea that my work, personal or not, would decide my career.
I understand if this sounds silly, I mean, everyone’s work matters. Your performance should always be a deciding part of how well you succeed in a career. But this is just different. As much as I don’t ever wish to be called an artist, I feel this is where I can relate to one. Every decision I make going into a photo is mine to make, but everyone’s to pick apart. So yes, I hope people view my work, photos are made to be seen – but I’m a lying son-of-a-bitch if I pretend I’m not a touch nervous each time.
Everything is subjective, and as photographers, we basically embody the phrase, “rules are made to be broken.” So you can’t ever be certain you’re doing a “good job” it seems. You can always get opinions, but no one is keeping grades or scores, and the difference between unemployment and paying rent comes down to some editor’s interpretation of how you visualize the world around you. You’re relying on yourself and yourself only to have communicated story, emotion, action, and meaning through a shit load of colors and reflections in a way that gets someone’s attention.
So I’ll give the short story of how I got to where I am. School happened. I chose journalism as my major and even when I went about changing to advertising, journalism sort of chose me (or the Morrisons told me it did.) I was lucky enough to work with a number of campus publications, local media outlets, and group projects including a trip to Cuba followed by a trip to Alaska my senior year. Also during my final year of school I accepted an internship in Cedar Rapids, Iowa after applying to papers in essentially every corner of the United States. I finished out my senior year and spent a few summer months returning to my summer job in the construction industry. After one last summer of rooftop work, it was off to Iowa and on with the corn jokes from friends and family.
Obviously, there is a lot to say about six months in a new town, new state, working my first newspaper position in the first state to caucus in the primaries… so I’ll leave that to another post. In short though, I grew a ton, learned a massive amount from the staff shooters, and began to shape into my own style (so I’m told) and I’m and starting to hone in on what type of shooter I want to be - maybe.
But wait, there’s more Midwest-living! Next internship: Peoria, IL. About three hours down the road and I find myself starting in a new city with promises of more diversity, less sports coverage, and a stronger focus on documentary style photojournalism, (cue rainbows, butterflies, and the music dreams are made of). Again, lots to say here, but I’ll save it for another time.
Basically, I’ve had plenty of time to think about what I want to be and what I want to do. I’ve thought about all the different ways I can take my career throughout the last year and while I’ve made a lot of progress with my own thoughts, I still don’t know where I stand. You are perfectly correct to believe that is a pretty typical experience for someone my age, in my industry, but I take no solace in that fact. I am incredibly uncomfortable with my uncertainty, while simultaneously being absolutely liberated by its presence.
I’ve envied the jobs of AP, Reuters, and Getty photographers I rubbed shoulders with along the campaign trail, while looking for opportunities to become a Torsten Kjellstrand –esque fly-on-the-wall documentarian, I have even pondered selling most everything I own, including my beloved car (no really, that is like selling off your first-born to me), and trading the cash for more cameras and a one-way flight to Cuba… Syria? What about Mexico? Israel? Somewhere news is breaking. Somewhere I can prove myself and even establish a name for myself. I mean if I live somewhere like that, make photos, and network my ass off, someone will notice me, right?
Then again, I could get a real job and sell my soul to a cubicle, water cooler humor, and casual Fridays.
Heh, no thanks.
[Extra bonus if you read the whole thing: here is Mel and I being friends in Cuba - ignore her cane and my sharpie’d tattoo and lack of shoes, we’re professional I promise. Photo credit goes to Pam!]