The Bride and the Photographer
(San Juan, Puerto Rico, 2006)
I’m not a wedding photographer, but I love photographing weddings.
Linda and I were in Old San Juan, staying at the Hotel El Convento. We booked there partly because this converted convent sounded beautiful and interesting (dating back to 1646 as The Monastery of Our Lady Carmen of San José). But also because Linda and I—but especially Linda—were childhood fans of the Sally Field television show, The Flying Nun, which was sort of—possibly, partly, roughly—set there. Maybe. On the show, you remember, they called it Convent San Tanco.
But that’s Hollywood. A lot of The Flying Nun was shot on a sound stage or around southern California; and various location exteriors were composites of different particular San Juan spots that were not necessarily connected geographically. But, most definitely, the wide alleyway staircase on the left side of the Hotel El Convento was, without a doubt, the stairs that Sister Bertrille strolled up, stopped, and looked back coyly to the camera in the show’s ending credits. And I’ve got pictures of Linda posing in the same manner in the same place, to prove it.
There were other aspects of Old San Juan that I loved. But, frankly, I’m not a tropical weather guy. So mostly I wanted to sit in the miniature park in front of the hotel, under the tree, and admire the splendor of the San Juan Cathedral across the street. It’s the oldest cathedral in the western hemisphere. Mid-day, the cruise ships would dock at port and release their hoards between meals. They would race up the hill in rented electric golf carts, pause through a rolling stop, point their pocket cameras at the cathedral, and, click. Then back for dinner with their new friends from Charlotte and Cleveland.
But one afternoon, with bells ringing, we realized that weddings were held in the cathedral on Saturdays.
“Well, let’s go see.”
Assuming the best, I changed into my laundered white dress shirt (and actual pants and shoes); and, of course, I brought my camera. Because, I love to photograph weddings.
Wedding photography, of my sort, is just like photographing tourists or majorettes. The prospective subjects simply expect it; photography is what happens at weddings. Plus, better than tourists (but not as good as majorettes), the prospective subjects are dressed up and perky. Previously, all of the weddings I’d photographed were those of friends, almost all done with an actual wedding photographer hired to get the expected stuff. My method is too informal and mixed with conversation and dancing. But photographing the weddings of strangers, uninvited … well, as I’ve said, “Let’s go see.”
It was Marie and Ricardo’s big day. The guests were still arriving. Ricardo looked tall, dark, and handsome, standing at the entrance—maturely greeting both guests and tourists, alike.
Ah, tourists.
The Cathedral was not closed to the public for Marie and Ricardo’s big day. So, even those in their tropic-moist t-shirts, cargo shorts, and flip-flops (what is it about people?) were allowed to mingle through the entry and into the nave, with their pocket cameras out. Click.
I made a point of introducing myself to Ricardo. “A travel photographer,” I might have fudged a bit (rather than “traveling photographer”) (or, maybe, even, more properly, “tourist photographer”). Oh, well. But I also congratulated him on his big day, told him my love for weddings, that his wedding would add a perfect bit of local detail to my “images of Old San Juan,” and, “Would it be all right if I took some pictures from the sidelines?”
“You’re welcome to,” he said, beaming, and shaking my hand. “I’d be honored.”
What a guy, that Ricardo.
So I also cleared it with the photographer, James Perez, boldly growing my title to “travel photographer who captures local color.”
James was also seemingly flattered, and incredibly gracious, as I calmly made note in my reporter’s book and gave him my business card (which, it should be said, even amateurs can buy and have made).
Thus granted permission to interject myself, I tried my best to honor their brave naivete and remain as deferential as I possibly could: out of James’s way while he did his professional work. I had experience with this; after all, most of the weddings I’d photographed were in such circumstances (though as a formally invited guest). But the tug is great when I’m in photo mode so, as with past weddings, I had to consciously remain out of sight lines, avoid hovering around the primary subjects, and pull myself back when I found myself reflexively creeping into the scene (here, with too much assumed familiarity). Yet, as I sampled James’s disposition through regular eye contact, before, during, and after the ceremony, never did he project an annoyance with my “team work.”
But for me, it wasn’t work. While I was adding local color to my travel photography, James was the one working that day. (And he would do so for countless hours over many days thereafter—pulling together his product for his anxious clients.) So while maybe you thought the subject of this post was Old San Juan or the convent or the cathedral, the bride and/or groom, or the wedding itself (but, hopefully, not Sally Field and Sister Bertrille)—my apologies for this circumlocution. No, my subject in this post is photographer James Perez—and all professional, talented, detail-oriented wedding photographers everywhere.
