PointsSouth: Articles 2007

The light around me is suddenly extinguished. My spirits drop, failure taking the place of naive expectations. The camera hanging at my side taps my rib cage, harder with every frantic step. I look around in a panic. In a moment the world of journalism has shifted and for the first time I feel like quitting.

I was standing in the middle of a drum circle on Treasure Island at sunset visually covering a story for the first time and all I could think was, Where's my notebook. After coming off a successful story just 24 hours earlier, I proudly declared that I would not write that week and instead produce a Soundslides show, where I'd edit audio and photos and combine them in a program I had no idea how to use.

Don't worry Dwayne, I thought confidently. You have a room full of technological geniuses at your disposal. This will be a cinch. Right? Wrong.

Unfortunately, my attempt at visual conquest was void of one simple fact. I had no idea how to use a camera. I entered the project ready to take pictures for Facebook or my grandmother's scrapbook, not for a professional publication.

Let's retreat back in time and set the stage for the nervous breakdown that followed once I removed my writing hat and donned that of a photojournalist.

My father is a computer programmer. More like a computer demigod. And my archenemy, for reasons my mother refers to as "personality cloning." So growing up I detested everything that was a part of his repertoire.

Megabytes, gigabytes, programming and system analysis were completely abhorrent. My father made many attempts to pass down his trade and failed miserably. While he described how he assembled and programmed the computer that still sits in our basement, I'd be elsewhere mentally, deciding what outfit to where to that night's school dance or what would become of Ross and Rachael in the next "Friends" episode. He soon realized I was a lost cause and these moments began to disappear.

Becoming a true Freudian example, I entered adulthood subconsciously detesting all that was high-tech. So when I was handed a Canon Rebel digital camera and unpacked the Marantz digital recorder, a familiar wave of nausea set in.

Not willing to panic just yet, I called on colleague Erik Oeverndiek, who gave me a crash course in contrast and lighting.

"If it's going to be dark, you want to make sure to set your ISO pretty high," Erik said.

"What's an ISO?" I asked.

"It's the film speed," Erik said. My brow furrowed in confusion, signaling him to continue. "The higher the ISO, the more light comes into the camera when you take the picture."

"So what lens should I use?" I said, massaging the creases in my forehead.

"It doesn't really matter, just depends on how close you want to get," Erik said, handing me the camera.

"Why are there so many buttons? What are all these icons for?" I said, the nausea returning. Oh God, what was I thinking? I can't do this, I thought as my mind reeled.

Fifteen minutes later I was just as unskilled, but at least I had some clue what I was about to take on. So I bounded out the door, swinging my bag of technical equipment at my side like a schoolboy on his first day of kindergarten.

At first, all was well on the technical front. I was taking pictures, talking it up with the drummers and their wives, getting ambient audio, and was even at one point pulled into the middle of the drum circle to dance by an intoxicated middle-aged woman.

As the sun set and the gathering of rhythmic inebriation reached its peak, I lifted the camera as I'd done 53 times before, aimed into the crowd and pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

I looked at the screen and an error messaged flashed menacingly, as if the camera was plotting its hostile takeover.

Panic ensued.

I frantically pressed the black button to no avail. I felt the cold hard claws of defeat begin to take hold. I pulled out my phone and called Jason Fritz, the photographer on my beat. As I reached into my pocket I also realized my notebook was now missing. My eyes welled with tears. While retracing my steps, Jason finally picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Oh my God, Jason, I'm having a nervous breakdown," I sobbed into the phone. "The camera isn't working, the last few pictures I took are blurry, it's flashing some error message at me, and to top it all off I've lost my notebook that has all the names of everyone I took pictures of."

"Dwayne, calm down," Jason said, slightly giggling on the other line. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find your notebook. I'll head back to the newsroom and try to find a manual or something."

"OK," I said, sounding like my 7-year-old niece after spilling her milk.

I hung up the phone and went back to look for my notebook, which was poking out of the sand a few feet from the crowd. As I was digging it out of the ground my phone buzzed against my leg. Jason hadn't found a manual but suggested I put the camera on the automatic setting and turn on the flash. But 42 more clicks later my ineptitude failed me again and the camera shut off.

The screen was now flashing an icon signaling the battery had died. Of course I had not thought to bring a spare. A small tear fell down my cheek. Why did I think I could ever do this?

I gathered my composure. Camera be damned, I'm getting this story. I took out the recorder and pulled the lead drummer to the side to grill him on everything he knew about the event. I also went back to record more ambient sound before heading to my car.

Though I may have lost the battle, I wasn't going to lose the war. I got back to the newsroom, my spirits low, but fought the urge to reach for the pen and went through my pictures with Jason. He suggested I go to bed and continue my fight the next morning.

I awoke with a vengeance, ready to divide and conquer. I solicited the help of Poynter visual coaches Kenny Irby and Sara Quinn, who offered constructive criticism that propelled my project forward. I locked myself in the computer lab with Jason and learned how to edit my photos in Photoshop, how to edit my audio on Soundtrack Pro, and how to compile it all in Soundslides. I was a man on a mission and not even my own self-doubt would stop me.

In the end, I produced a 2-minute audio recording in sync with a couple dozen photos. My father has yet to see the project. Hopefully my exploration of the multimedia frontier will lead me to the conquest of another, namely our flailing relationship. My mother, however, was elated at the fact that she found the Web site on her own, making my Soundslides show a postmodern masterpiece.

After a life of cringing at new programs and avoiding technology, I've finally destroyed that unconscious uncertainty and replaced it with a craving for the unknown.
I'm now ready to take on journalism multimedia with a determined fervor.

Watch out, Flash, here I come.