When I think of the stereotypical photo assistant, I picture a stocky, bearded guy in a beanie with two different pocket knives and three rolls of gaff tape roped together and carabinered to his Carhartts. He owns seventeen black t-shirts and goes to metal shows on the weekends and will make sure you know he knows how to convert power outputs from a 250 watt D1 to a 1000 watt D1.
I’m rolling my eyes, but please believe it’s in a jovial, endeared, I’m laughing with you kind of way. These very bros have been nothing but kind and helpful to me in my last year and a half assisting. There is certainly something to be said for their intricate, up-to-date knowledge of every industry-standard camera body, light, and modifier. The number of times one of these dudes has had to remind me how to rig a parabolic onto a mega boom arm is embarrassing. Each day I’m on set with one of them, I can rely on at least one of their pocket knives to make a very important appearance and save the day with its 1” awl (okay, okay, I’m done).
Because I like need to feel useful at all times, and also because I do this for a living and I’d like to keep making money, I think a lot about what makes a good photo assistant. In the Off weeks, my deliberating is framed by the question “am I blacklisted because of some specific mistake I made, or was it just my general personality?” In the On weeks, my deliberation arises in the waiting minutes, where I stand by, uncomfortable with nothing to occupy my hands, trying to find more ways I can contribute to the collective efficiency and morale of whatever team I’m working with.
This week I thought about what makes a good photo assistant while descending in a freight elevator. I realized the only reason I knew how a freight elevator worked is because after I took a semester off of school out of Covid-related spite, I no longer had a job and my manager from the equipment rental cage was kind enough to invent one for me - moving dusty junk out of rooms on the third floor and into rooms on the fourth floor of the photo building, in preparation for a renovation I wouldn’t get to see. For the duration of my shifts, I’d strut through the hallways, high off the power of the freight elevator key swinging from my hip. Standing in this other freight elevator two years later, I felt a glimmer of gratitude that I didn’t have to ask anyone for a tutorial (just press CALL, idiot), and I could go about my job with the speed of someone who’d “done this before”.
The lesson of how to use (how to not be afraid of) a freight elevator came to me easily, but many more important aspects of this job I had to learn through embarrassment. If I were in charge of preparing hoards of twenty-one year olds to enter the commercial photography space, before they flew the coop I would ensure, if nothing else, they knew these two things:
On set you must
1) learn and remember everyone’s name
2) wear. black.
The first was a lesson I learned on my very first job - a miraculous, week long, well paying gig, of which I spent half my time in a rolly chair naming files. Each day, our team (me, the photographer, the owner of the brand, another client guy, a videographer, and the occasional talent) would walk somewhere to eat lunch together. On one of the last days of our shoot, while we were waiting for our food, I asked one of the models how long she’d known Jarred, the owner of the brand we were shooting, who at that moment was walking up to the table with forks in his hands for everyone. She looked at me, confused, and I realized his name was not Jarred, and even worse, I could not remember what his name actually was. I panicked and made maybe the most ungraceful conversational pivot of my life, praying the now present, newly nameless owner didn’t hear my mistake, although I’m pretty sure he did. When we got back to the studio, I scoured the company’s catalog for his name, and to this day I quiz myself on it once a month or so.
Now, I consider it my mission to not only know everyone’s name on set, but use it frequently so others can be reminded, and we can all be spared the mortification of calling someone the wrong name. But alas, despite my efforts, I still pay for that faux pas karmically by someone calling me “Taylor” nearly every time I’m on a shoot. (Must be something about the round vowels, I don’t know.)
My second most basic but crucial must-do on set is “wear black”, which I cannot believe not ONE person told me in my four years studying literal Advertising Photography. I spent who knows how many hours watching demos and in studios for my own homework, and NO ONE mentioned that you’re supposed to wear black. It’s so simple! Why wouldn’t you LEAD with that!!
For those who don’t work in this industry: you’re supposed to wear black to minimize reflecting or bouncing weird colors onto the people or things you’re shooting. This isn’t strictly necessary on every shoot, but it is good practice. For example, when shooting dark, glass shampoo bottles, it might be a good idea to forgo the hyper-saturated pink and blue Patagonia, Jordan!!
Unfortunately that was the second time I had to learn that lesson. On my first job with Nike, I wanted to impress, so naturally, I showed up in one of my coolest outfits - a silky, bright turquoise button down, printed with large yellow chains. At the end of the day, the assistant I was working under - who’d spent all day patiently explaining (sometimes over-explaining) standard studio procedure to me - mentioned as casually as he could, with the smallest glance at my peacocking shirt, that I should try to wear black tomorrow, and my face turned what I’m sure was a very complementary shade of red.
For those actually seeking a guide on how to be a better photo assistant, I’m well aware that “wear black, remember people’s names, and know generally how to use a freight elevator” is a pretty dumb list.
When I think about it in earnest, no knowledge of lighting or set etiquette will carry you further than simply showing attentiveness and empathy. On so many shoots, the most valuable thing I do all day is listen, and talk with the photographer. Or the talent, or the producer, or whoever. Whether you’re showing up to five grip trucks that need unloading at the top of a mountain, or to a humble studio with three c-stands in the corner, the best thing you can do is make people feel like whatever it is they’re working towards, they’re not alone in that pursuit.
It takes a lot of emotional energy, a lot of intuition, and a lot of courage, at times, to show up that way for people you maybe just met earlier that day. I wish I could say I nail it every time, but of course there are plenty of days where I’m running on empty and by 3:00, all I can do is exactly what I’m asked. But that’s okay, because chances are, when they see that you know how to operate a freight elevator, they’ll want to hire you again.
Have a killer Saturday :)
Jordan