The Year is 1885
It’s a bold summer afternoon. The scene is the Seine River. The three musketeers are trying to take a picture, quick one for the gram, before, you know, getting back to the mission. Athos grumbles that he is too old, Aramis pouts about his fingernails, Porthos insists on showing off his new fancy helmet in the picture, D’Artagnan, bothered with seeking his fortune, has no time for visual frivolities. The three musketeers find themselves in a pickle. Nobody to take this great, historic picture…
The concept of inclusion is not a hard one to grasp. Sometimes, being the friend who can take a good picture is an unfortunate quality. At every stop, somebody gleefully passes you their phone and the group convenes for a picture, without you. Fifty pictures later, you begin to doubt if you were even alive that day. Take for instance, the peculiar way only you can squint at a camera, or stretch your smile, is something that’ll never be seen in those pictures. Your membership of squad is debatable after a couple of images.
But, nobody needs to be excluded.
The year is 1884. Tamieka, award-winning maternity photographer in the Fairfax area, traveling in a rugged one-horse carriage, on her way to shoot a royal family West of the Seine, observes the musketeers arguing. She stops and whips out the George Eastman Kodak. She spreads the Gladstone, focuses its fixed lens on the unsuspecting musketeers and with a deft release of her left index, permits the single clutter to run its course. She charges them fifty dollars more than she would, because, come on, everyone knows professionals do not condone civilians moonlighting this precious, precious art.
Don’t be a musketeer, friend. Call a professional.