Three Days in the life of a Failed Freelancer

 

September three, twenty sixteen was a special day. Yes is was my birthday. It was a Saturday and was the day a dream was fulfilled. Well kind off. Let me sketch the background. It goes way back.

Big brother Michael was a photojournalist for the District Mail in Somerset West. So throughout my school career I wanted to be like my big brother. I wanted to do what he did. Write stories and take pictures. 1978 I was in standard nine or grade 11 as they call it now. Big brother was killed in motorcycle accident that year. It was devastating. Yet I carried on seeking my dream. Rhodes University would have been the place to be but finances at the time just did not allow for it. Instead I applied to the than SANS institute to study journalism. My application was unsuccessful. But that dream never died. I went and studied to become a teacher. That unfortunately, did not go according to plan either. After that plan failed I landed my first job at a photographic studio in Somerset West. JMT studios was where I learnt the tricks of working in the darkroom and using film cameras.

Throughout my growing years I was taught to aim high. My failed attempts at journalism did not diminish my admiration for those that took the pictures and wrote the stories. Big brother was no longer with us so I looked for other role models. Writers like Douglas Heard and photographers like Benny Gool and the members of the Bang Bang Club (Kevin Carter, Greg Marinovich, Ken Oosterbroek, and João Silva) were men I admired. For my part, I never went anywhere without the Minolta SRT101 big brother left behind. It was my constant companion.

Fast forward to twenty fourteen. I had worn dozens of Tee shirts and shed them along the way. I had gotten to the point where life was moving swimmingly with the odd shit storm along the way. Photography and music was never far away. However as much as things were going well,  I found out one day how quickly things can change. Out of nowhere the two R’s came into view. “Restructure and “Retrenchment”. Negotiations took place and I was given an ultimatum and an opportunity. I took the opportunity and gave up formal employment. There started the journey that would eventually lead me to a chair in front of the picture editor at Independent News.

I bought a camera with all the fiddly bits. It was a machine that got me into places I would never dream of. Besides the weddings, kiddie’s parties and small money making ventures, I shot on the set of “Long Walk to Freedom” and “Black Sails”. It enabled me to worm myself in alongside news crews covering the Zuma protest among other things. I wanted in on the action at all costs. If they could do it so could I. I lived with the hope that my pictures would be seen and found acceptable. Freelancing was the thing for me. Yes there were the odd really good paying jobs. I met some amazing people. Yet it was not enough. If only I could get onto that floor where the heart of news beat in Cape Town. The battle was hard and soul destroying. But hey. I believed. After all. Big brother would have walked this floor had it not been for that drunk bastard bus driver that turned in front of them.

So one day, there I was twittering as usual when a tweet from then editor pops up on my timeline. Indie is looking for freelance writers. I promptly respond “what about photographers”. The desired reply comes quickly. And that is how I found myself sitting in a chair opposite the picture editor and the chief photographer. It’s Friday September the 2^nd. I’m told “be here tomorrow with your gear”. As Brian Adams would say “I’m in heaven”. Damn I’d arrived.  

The following is important for context sake. WE were financially broke. The wife thought this whole exercise was futile and was dead against it. I remember driving into town that morning, on my birthday, with about twenty bucks in my pocket. I remember “promising” the cities parking attendant I would pay upon my return. Thing is I knew they worked till two on a Saturday. In all likelihood he’d be gone by the time I’d leave. Like I said. I was going to chase this “dream” at all cost.  

September three reporter and I went out on assignment. Doctor Khumalo was opening a soccer academy in Mfuleni and there was some commemoration of Mother Theresa happening in Khyalitsha. I was the driver. I got the shots and he got the story. The shots made it onto pages two and three. Khumalo’s picture made it over three columns. I was beyond cloud nine. Imagine the feeling when I saw the credit line. I mean what could be bigger than Sunday Argus. 

The following Saturday I was back. There was an event at a school in Cape Town. The brief was simple. Get the shots, we’ll get the story from in house. Off I went. There was no page three or any page that day. I had again bribed the parking guy and got away with it.

The third Saturday I was lying in bed and my phone rings. It’s the chief. There’s been a robbery at Sanlam Centre in Parow. Again, the simple brief. Get the shots. We’ll get the story. Again. No pictures on pages.  

                            (Pause for a moment)

I guess we’ve all been there at some time or other. You’re sleeping and you’re having this amazing dream and you’re hoping against hope. Then you wake up and reality kicks you in the teeth. The lessons were hard ones and really difficult to swallow.

In the midst of my enthusiasm I made cardinal mistakes. The biggest was, I did not negotiate terms of engagement. There was a horrible reality waiting to rear its head. On all three Saturdays I had spent nearly eighteen hours in total in the newsroom. On top of that and worst of all, I was only going to get paid for pictures used. At seventy five rand per column width, all I was going to get for my efforts was two hundred and twenty five bucks or the six hours I had spent on floor that first day. The other two days was simply a total right off.

The ultimate kick in the teeth was what I did not know. Independent was in the middle of restructuring. There were journalist and photographers on the floor with me that were facing the chop. I had unknowingly stepped into a war zone and dumped in at the deep end. There was no help, no support. Open hostility was everywhere. Any question asked was met with a simple yes or no. Zero explanations were given. I was left to sink and no one gave a shit. I realized I was taking food off the tables of people that had given their lives for the job and it was been made known to me in no uncertain terms.  

I never went back after the third Saturday. I was done. I was gutted. In the months following I did two really big jobs. They were however not enough to prevent total loss and the selling of my gear.

I never gave up on the dream though. I had to start over. I have another camera. It will never be what it was back then. And, just like for the rest of the world, Covid 19 came and spun my world off its axis and left us reeling. Yet even now, there is a glimmer in distance. It’s really feint. But its hope. And for now. That’s fine. I’ll take it. No matter how dim.