Diary of A Citizen Journalist: Shooting the Obama Trilogy

THE LINE AROUND THE BLOCK took us by surprise. We had heard the buzz over Senator's Obama's arrival building in the last day or so, even though only two days notice were given before he came to Eugene, Oregon to speak at McArthur Court or "The Pit" as it is known to locals. 

Still, we hadn't expected the turnout or the speed with which it would, well—turn out!

A Quickly-Growing Line and a Quickly-Made Decision

One of the things that stands out regarding Senator Obama's campaign is its ability to draw massive crowds wherever the campaign touches down. Oregon has proven to be no exception.

At only three pm (Obama was scheduled to speak at 9pm) the line of people waiting to gain entrance was already around the corner and halfway down the block. And let me clarify for a moment. When I say "block" what I mean is a "block" that wraps around an area the size of 18 or 36 normal "blocks," depending on which adjacent blocks you compare with. (See map below).

This block is comprised of both a full-size soccer field, a baseball diamond, two tennis courts, and the famous Hayward Field, a track field where Olympic trials are held, among other events. This is a block that about 13,000 people circled, some with sleeping bags, some with laptops or headphones, others with games of checkers or a book and a pillow, and all of them for hours.

Just as with the MLK video I made where I hopped out of the car on a hunch, on a whim, on the spur of the moment to follow a march wherever it might be going—again, here, I parted ways with the other members of the car and hopped out on the spur of the moment. Yes, it was inopportune timing, although I did have my camera and tripod in the car. I was flustered as I had been counting on going back to the apartment before heading out and preparing, as well as eating the lunch I had just bought.

But the line was growing at such a rate that I knew I couldn't chance even another five minutes. Obama's speech in Eugene—unlike his stops in Salem and Portland, Oregon—was a "first come, first served" event, with no ticketing. And I was pretty sure that here, just like many other stops on the Obama campaign, there would be a large amount of people who didn't make it inside. 

I was worried mostly because I did not have a Press Pass yet. And this was my first time covering a Presidential candidate as a journalist, and my biggest gig yet as a member of the MTV Choose or Lose Street Team '08. I didn't want to blow it, and I wasn't sure how far my Street Team cred would take me. I had got in touch the day before with the Obama campaign (regarding my role as journalist), and was hoping I would be out on the floor with all the big cameras. But again, this was the first time I had done anything like this. 

So I hopped out of the car on the spot. In my hurry, I left my lunch behind. 

This was no small error, as I lose my ability to function well without food, and I was already starting to get a little shaky from hunger. But it would be another three minutes or so before I realized what had happened. All I knew was that in the absence of a guaranteed Press Pass, I better get in that line quick unless I wanted to go home and fire up a blog post that said "Well, Obama came to Oregon, and he even spoke down the road from me, but this week I chose to shoot a video of these three sweet frogs waiting for crickets!"

I waved goodbye to the car that dropped me off and hustled over to the sidewalk. Unfolded my tripod and stood it up. Put my camera on top. Turned it on. 

I know from experience that you don't want to start grabbing any useful footage right at the start of a tape. You want to let it roll for a little bit. Otherwise you might run into problems bringing it into the computer later ("insufficient pre-roll" space). So I turned on the camera and just recorded the crowd of people in front of me for ten or fifteen seconds, not really aiming at anyone, and not looking much like I was shooting. Just going through my pockets, checking the whereabouts of my earpiece, iPhone, batteries, tapes, ID, sound recorder, keys, and release forms (yes, they had been in the car). It was right about this point where I realized I had brought the proper release forms but had forgotten my lunch! I really was a well-greased cog in the citizen journalism machine, it seemed. My legal stomach was happy, but my actual stomach was a bit concerned. And I knew I'd have to eat soon. It was unrealistic to think I could last seven or eight hours past the Shaky Hands stage. While I am not medically diagnosed, it's understood that I am hypoglycemic. My mother is hypoglycemic, diabetes runs in my family (it dramatically ended the life of my abuelo, my paternal grandfather) and my blood sugar tendencies and needs are well-known by those close to me.

I made a call on my phone. Maybe I could have someone bring the lunch back to me. But that didn't work out, as I couldn't reach anyone. 

While I was doing this, the woman in front of me was talking to her friend on the phone about the line that was blowing everyone's mind, and how it reached "all the way around Agate [St.]" She was telling him that she didn't think he would get in to see Obama. Cell phones were in high use, in fact, as many people relayed the details of the situation to those not in line. See a still of the (unintentional) shot below.

The great part about this was while I hadn't planned to record her, the shotgun microphone on my camera zeroed in beautifully on this story she was relating, and thought it's true that the entire crowd was humming with conversation, she was right on axis (in line with the mic) and her words were isolated. They ended up the perfect introduction to Part 1 of my Obama in Oregon Trilogy. A lesson never to overlook any portion of what you've captured on tape. I don't know about other shooters/editors, but many fantastic editing scraps that end up in my bins are not so much controlled or planned, but very often spontaneous or experimental.

New Media Meets Old Media

A woman next to me in line took a look at my gear and my shirt (Street Team '08 represent!) and my hat (gotta love that MTV News logo that so many of us have grown up looking at) and said to me "I don't think Press has to wait in line. I think they have their own line." And I knew this, but as you know, I wasn't sure that I was part of They, yet. 

I took the woman's statement to be proof that the Universe was nudging me. I translated her words  into "There you go, Nezua, so don't be shy! Go make your fate!" I asked her if she would "hold my place" in the line should I be wrong about getting Press access, and she agreed. I hoisted my tripod over my shoulder, I turned my camera on, and I smiled and said "I'll be back soon." As I walked away, I checked myself and turned around very briefly to add "or...I hope not, actually!" and she laughed. 

I taped all the laughing, bored, tired, excited, happy people as I walked along the line to the front of McArthur Court. I already knew just how I'd use the long, traveling shot.

As serendipity (or The Universe, as previously introduced) would have it, just as I reached the front of the line, I saw a fellow in my viewfinder whom I recognized (except his head was really tiny in my viewfinder and in real life, it looks much bigger). I stopped for a moment to say hi. It was the photographer from the Eugene/Springfield Register Guard, and I recognized him because he had been in my studio room a few days ago shooting me for an article on my Street Teaminess that the Eugene/Springfield Register Guard just ran. We laughed at the chance meeting, but as I was taping a shot that I wanted to run as a long, continuous take, I moved on soon. It wouldn't make sense in this shot (I was imagining) if suddenly the camera lingered on this one, laughing dude. We'd have to know who he was!

So I moved on to the front of the building, where the line stopped about thirty feet away from McArthur Court. "The Pit." An arena famed for its ability to channel the audience's cheers and shouts and stomps into a roar that nearly deafens. Wikipedia tells us that The Pit is "arguably the loudest" in the Pacific-10 Conference, as well as the "second-oldest on-campus arena still in use (after Fordham University's Rose Hill Gym)." On collegehoops.net, Bill Kintner said of McArthur Court, it "is a building that will give you chills even if there is no game being played."[4]", and in 2001 Sporting News, it was named the "best gym in America."

When I reached the front (or "center") of the line (as it went all the way around), I grabbed shots that I knew would be necessary in visually framing the event.

After a while, I walked over to the news trucks and talked to the big girls and big boys of News and TV. I wasn't sure what it was I needed to know from them—butting in and blurting out "Do I realllllly have to wait in line???" seemed to be lacking a certain dignity—but I ended up asking if the campaign had "a liaison for the Press." (Despite all the talk of Freedom Fries in certain circles, Big Boys and Girls generally admire French words, so "liaison" is a useful one. Keep it in mind. Being able to spell it can earn you double the Sociological Scrabble Master aura.) They helpfully pointed me to a section of the building and said "Actually, there's a Press Room," and told me how to find it. Like magic. I think a lot of it is the hat. It's got Kenobi vibes. Combined with an approachable demeanor, it says "Okay, these may not be the droids you are looking for, but this surely is the Citizen Journalist you've been dreaming of!" 

I would have smiled at the Universe for the help, but I was feeling very hungry and yet, knew I had to resolve this little "access" issue before I thought of finding food. A smile was excess energy I just couldn't afford. You think I'm kidding, but what if I needed that smile to get back in line and I only had one left?

You see? That's Guerrilla Filmmaking smarts, my friend. 

The Gauntlet

So once I found where the PRESS door was, I chilled there and wondered if there was food inside. I spoke to a couple people from the local paper, all friendly-like. Before long (and completely unexpectedly) another (apparent) citizen journalist approached us and asked if we were (official) Media. You could tell she was not a pro because she spoke softly and timidly and held her sound recorder closer to herself than any of the people to whom she was speaking. I kept quiet because I was conserving energy, and my new friends from the newspaper were friendly, but didn't offer any effusive statements. I felt sort of bad for the young woman. She didn't yet know how to elicit people to speak freely, as she was a bit too uncomfortable to go about making others comfortable, and the Press really is (or can be) the last people to begin bubbling over with quotable statements. We are used to being on the other side of the mic and we know better. 

I saw "we," but honestly I felt as if I were somewhere in between this timid amateur and these two wary pros. Due to my own media experience and education, I'm no newbie in media. But I'm trained in actual filmmaking (documentary and fiction narrative) and only beginning to understand the specialization and art known as "journalism." (Although I feel there is much overlap with Documentary filmmaking.) Anyway, I could definitely relate to her inexperience and awkwardness. I probably came across as stoic and amused with it all. But really, I was imagining leafy and crunchy expanses of mayonnaise-slathered tomato slabs as they were delicately lain down next to hearty rippling layers of turkey and provolone. I smiled through my suddenly misty eyes and nodded as the photographer grunted forth a few words in the general direction of the sound recorder the woman was holding. 

"What kind of recorder is that?" he said, and then we all leaned in. Here was something that clearly interested us! We talked of the different brands to use, and which ones were our favorites. 

And then, finally, it was time to for the Press to get in on the main floor. Here, then, was the fruit of my anticipation, the test of my documentation and preparation. 

And it worked! They saw my letter and my many labelings and branding elements and said "Oh, that's right, you called. We were expecting you." And they brought forth from their secret stock—like a foil wrapper giving way to show the last ticket to WIlly Wonka's factory or a much-anticipated Glengarry lead—a fresh, blue, CHANGE Press Pass, and handed it to me after they checked, and then I signed, their list. 

I walked to the special entrance manned by a throng of police with a deep feeling of relief, and that card pressed tight within my palm. Still no smile, though. I had decided. I would not give it away. I would only trade it. For something with mayonnaise on it. If need be, I'd compromise. Mustard was fine.

The floor of Mac Court

You may think I'm harping a bit much on the food and blood sugar thing, but it is not unwarranted. This accurately reflects the state of my mind at the time. I was no longer even thinking about what shots I could grab for the story. That's how bad it was getting. Hell, I think of What Shots I Can Grab For the Story even as some others around me might actually be enjoying the swim, for example. Or lamenting the loss of their tire iron on the side of I-95. Or wondering when the emergency room crowd will thin out so they can get their arm set in a cast. The thought is rarely far from my mind. And here, I was missing countless moments I could have snapped with the digital camera that MTV had given me, or even my trusty iPhone. I didn't care. I was sure that I was losing my mind, actually, as a Policeman with a dog was telling me to lay my lovely camera on the floor, and to turn it on. I tend not to argue with police with big dogs unless I really have a pressing reason to do so, and while it seemed an odd request, I had a feeling the dog was really hoping I would go along with it. So for the dog, I did. What can I say? I love animals. 

Meanwhile, policewomen with blue gloves on were handling all my gadgets and trying to decide if they (a) turned on, (b) played or only recorded, and (c) what all these switches did (while cooing over my iPhone, I kid you not, it's a real crowdpleaser) and I was sure that a resurrected Fellini (or Bergman or even Kubrick) would swing out of the rafters and yell "CUT! PRINT!" any second, but it didn't happen and after one last cop waved a large wand over the contours of my well-shaped physique—lifting up my shirt to admire my engraved "West Side" belt buckle—I was ushered into the hall. 

The Esteemed Riser. Holding Out For a (Submarine) Hero.

Now done with the dog-sniffing, wand-waving, gadget-handling part of the whole thing (or so I thought), I walked into the arena and looked around a bit. Right in the center of the floor there was a riser where cameras from CNN and Fox and KVAL and the Register Guard and the University of Oregon's own newspaper (TV station?) were parked. What a shot. Right across from the stage. Not knowing anything about how this happens, I began walking right up the steps. Hey! Reach for what you want, right?

Except a beefy fellow who stood about six inches taller than me stepped in front of me and asked me for my credentials, which I fished out and handed to him. I was disappointed that my Official Press Pass was being ignored, but I think my "I don't know anything about Press Risers" attitude may have triggered his sudden skepticism. 

He looked over my papers and told me I had a "cool gig," to which I probably nodded or something. You have to remember, when my blood sugar is low, all decorative or frivolous physical expenditures of energy are jettisoned in the name of being conservative. (And here you thought I was so very liberal!) I was really focused on parking my rig and finding food. He explained at this point that spots on this riser were reserved. And while he had one or two on hold, he couldn't give any up yet. So I nodded, and said I understood and to let me know if that happened. And I took my camera downstairs from the riser steps and parked it behind the riser itself. I slung my jacket over it, and asked a person who seemed stationary if he would keep an eye on it. Not something I do often, but I couldn't carry it around anymore.

I spoke to a few people at this point. I think I mentioned food to both of them. One time somewhat inappropriately. But my hunger was gradually crowding out all other brain activity. I think one time I brought it up somewhat oddly was to the woman who was actually the aforementioned "liaison." Someone had told her I was around and she was meeting with me. She said, smiling, "I want to sit down for this," though I wasn't sure why. It was a very short talk. She was very kind, and said she would keep an eye out for a spot  opening up so I could get a shot, and seemingly in response, I told her I was going to find some food. She looked at me for a moment, smiling and said "Okay!" To which I laughed and replied something ridiculous like "I know you don't care" to which she enthusiastically replied "But I do!" and then left, feeling ridiculous. And starved. I had of course meant something more like "I know that's not your concern, but if you look over your shoulder and don't see me, that's what I'm doing." But such nuance would have used about four calories more than I could afford, and thus, the truncated and seemingly whiny version won out.

I talked to a few more people about food, about soda machines, and about nearby restaurants. As you can tell, it wasn't casual conversation. I didn't lean in and say "So...how about those pretzels with the cheese inside, eh?" It was more of a "direction seeker with the urgent and concise questions" type of approach.

Aside from learning that I could, as a Press Person, leave the building as long as I was willing to be frisked and wanded again upon reentering, I found no useful information except that I could buy water or soda for over three dollars a bottle in the soda machine down the hall. No, actually, that really wasn't that helpful. But at the moment I thought it might be. I was desperate, and I was afraid that if I didn't find food soon, I might start clawing at everyone's sleeve and telling every last human in the place how hungry I was and then, surely, some lumbering sunglasses-wearing dude with a laser sight and Timberlake boots would stride into the arena with a tranquilizer gun and shoot me like a stray bear or some other form of mammal that has completely stepped out of civilized norms. That would totally deprive me of footage, so I was hoping to avoid that.

I walked to the soda machine, ready to pay my $3.50 for a jug of sugar water that would corrode my malnourished digestive system. As long as it fired up my brain synapses again, I could live with a little corrosion. My ability to navigate the situation was falling apart due to a simple lack of the brain's gasoline, glucose.

As you might guess, the soda machine did not make change, and all I had in the way of small bills was a five. I sort of laughed (said laugh may have sounded just a bit "groanish") and momentarily slouched in defeat. I filled my belly with water from the drinking fountain down the hall, and realized I just had to go for it. Another minute of indecision could be the ruin of my video. The building was filling, buzzing with anticipation, and I thought it probably wasn't long before the event began in earnest. I had no idea how long I had before the doors to the hall locked down and I really didn't know (exactly) how far a restaurant or store was from McArthur Court. But I did know that I had to eat, and I couldn't wait any longer.

I headed for the exit doors, moving as fast as I could without scaring the police. I wasn't about to give them an excuse to try out their new Tasers!

(Tranquilizer dart guns, Tasers...I am not normally fixated on being shot! I think it was the hordes of police and the focused security, and the importation of Washington D.C. Secret Service people into Eugene that keeps tweaking this metaphor from my account....)

Cornucopia and Fibrillation

I asked one or two people who were waiting in the very jam-packed line leading to the doors where I might find the nearest food. It seemed a question either nobody expected or was prepared to answer, because I only ended up with vague hand waving gestures. I think it may have been that everyone in line was terribly focused on moving forward, very excited to be so close to the entrance. It was clear that not everyone would make it inside. My asking them about locations and items that existed in the opposite direction and wholly unconnected to grabbing a seat where one might hear Barack Obama was something like asking people approaching the gates of Atlantis if they know where I might shop for a humidifier.

So I ran. 

I ran, holding my necklaces and my keys and my dangling Press Pass and my iPhone close to my body. I ran until my lungs began to burn. It  was not like the predawn jogging I do, at an even and measured pace. It was like sprinting as long as your body will allow. And then a little more. 

Light was beginning to fade from the sky, and I was worried that I would get locked out of the building. If I weren't trembling with hunger, I would never have taken the chance. But as hunger will do to any human being anywhere on the face of the planet, my priorities had been suddenly rearranged. And all that mattered was food.

I rounded the corner of the street and down another. I crossed over another street and ran to the front door of the Student Bookstore, which seemed to have lots of snacky shapes in bright wrappers only ten feet from the glass. But the door was locked. I kept moving. I ran into another restaurant. I stood at the corner for about eight seconds. Nobody was coming to the front of the store. They were all grayish blurs in the back room moving rather distractedly and I couldn't wait. I bolted. Went into another place. Two young women were behind the counter. Standing in front of an entire wall of empty racks which may have once been filled with bagels. I asked if I could have a bagel. They laughed. Silly me. I felt surreal. This was a bagel store. There were no bagels. It didn't hit me at the moment that this is what happens when 12,000 people descend almost at once on a small cluster of stores and restaurants! That connection probably required a few synapse firings I couldn't afford.

As I searched my own empty head for a way to communicate my frustration at the unexpected lack of bagel, and they spoke for a moment to each other, I realized that English was not their first language and worse, that I didn't know how to speak their first language. I shifted into incoherent mode in honor of this and said something like "Do you have anything easy to eat?" As if I were an old man with sore gums seeking the Holy Yogurt. As if it were easy to eat and easy to say, it would be easy to understand, and of course, easy to obtain. But, understandably, they laughed again. The woman pointed into the glass container at a piece of cake. "Cake!" she said, which was actually probably about the easiest thing to eat that exists. (Except for pie?) And I nodded. But then I hesitated. I really needed protein! Not sugar. Sugar was a bad idea, except for a jump-start. I didn't bother deliberating. Cut my losses. I thanked her and ran out of the store in search for something salty, or cheesy, or otherwise made of protein-like elements. 

I actually never found it. I forget where I even bought it, but I ended up with a brownie. A brownie and a plastic jug of apple juice. I ended up power-shambling back toward Mac Court as I stuffed my face. 

My iPhone rang. I fumbled for it, and realized that the smooth, slick, silvery surface of the phone does not hold up so well under fingers of juice-dissolved browniemush. I skated my fudgy fingers over the surface, leaving artsy maroon swirls across its once clean patina as I did so and struggling to find a purchase. I was not yet feeling the sugar in my bloodstream, and so was still stuffing food in my mouth as I performed this strange shuffling walk that alternated between walking, leaping, and jogging. I was too tired and occupied with gadgets and gravity to run, but was afraid if I didn't I would not get back in the arena. I was, in other words, presenting something of a pathetic figure at this point. I had stopped worrying about the Dude with the Tranq Gun, but it really should have been a concern of mine, given the gulping, starving, incoherent state I was in as I made my hurried way toward McArthur Court.

It was my wife on the phone. She had got my message. "I can bring the sandwich in five minutes, I can be there in five minutes" she said, and hardly one to refuse such a kind, mayo and mustard-laden offering, I said it would be great if she were. 

So I waited outside the doors in the very front of Mac Court (which seemed not to be locked down quite yet), received my sandwich, ate as much of it as I could manage, stuffed the rest into a garbage can, and then went inside to—finally—get some footage of Senator Obama speaking to the more than 9,000 Oregonians who managed to gain entrance.

The Pit

As I mentioned earlier, those who live in the city of Eugene take great pride in the sonic legend of McArthur Court, known locally as "The Pit." I can personally attest to the truth of this; the noise of the crowd inside rises until you can feel it rattling the air around your own ears. At the loudest moments, the entire building seems to become as a drum, and you are inside of it. 

But it was not that loud yet. There was warm-up music playing, and most seats were taken, though people were still filing in. There was a general air of excitement and anticipation, and you could feel it settle upon you as you entered. 

I was mostly concerned with getting to my camera and seeing if there was a better spot for me to begin shooting. I had washed my hands after being checked again by security, as well as wiped off my iPhone. Color was once again seeping into my world, as the glucose level of my bloodstream steadily returned to the level of "thinking mammal" from where it had been stalled, at "scrap of lax velcro." 

I was ready to get working. 

The Press Riser

I had lucked out, and it seems at least one (perhaps two) cameras had not shown up, and so I was ushered up onto the riser-for-special-people. As I set up, I was awed at what great shots I could get from my new vantage point. I had brought no cables of any sort, so I couldn't plug my gear into the "mote box," (dig the lingo) where you get the sound of the microphone as channeled directly through the sound board. And to grab sound from my on-board mic would have left me with dull, echoey, muddy and possibly distorted sound. It was time for some social engineering. Or "making connections."

I asked around until I met up with a couple fellas from a local TV station. The anchor deflected my question to the tech guys who handled his gear and the hardware. (All of us wire-wranglers know what it's like to run short of/lose a needed item on a shoot!) They loaned me the right cable, and now I had the same clean signal that all the Mainstream Media was getting. I was thrilled! 

It was right about as this thrill was wearing off that, as if in sympathy, my digital sound recorder died. Batteries were one of the things that I meant to stock up on when I went back to the apartment! I was upset with myself for a few moments. During the MLK rally shoot I had been reminded of the importance of grabbing continuous sound with a recorder, as my camera would be cutting in and out normally (as I grabbed various shots), or just wouldn't have the same sound which could be very useful for mixing later. Especially when you use a shotgun mic, which keeps more noise off-axis than it does on-axis. And after all, it had been quite a while since I learned first hand the importance of grabbing a bunch of clean "Room Tone" wherever you shot. So the loss of my sound recorder was definitely a blow. It was bound to mean a lot more work in the edit, and headaches trying to patch sound together creatively.

But after taking a deep breath and checking things over, I felt that overall, I was not in bad shape. I had my camera, my tripod, a great spot from which to shoot, four blank tapes, release forms, a newly-polished iPhone, a full belly, and I was ready to do this thing.

The crowd was getting pumped. Lots of spontaneous dancing, and laughter. The crowd noise seemed to be almost imperceptibly rising in that mysterious way that happens shortly before a band or much-anticipated speaker appears on stage. In smatterings, a gradual almost instinctual climbing of decibels, as if secret knowledge is filtering through the mass of people like current. 

I realized suddenly that I had not had time to pick up my spare camera battery, either, and the current one was just about to die.

O! BA! MA!

Another call to the unofficial grip truck (gracias a mi esposa!) a jaunt outside, and another wanding and frisking (I was beginning to worry that the tall cop was going to ask for my phone number if we did our little dance once more; he even recognized me by now and was making jokes based on our electronic and security-based relationship) and I was back on the riser. And with battery power!

In the next fifteen minutes (a rough estimate, for sure) I grabbed as many insert shots and cutaways that I could. I no longer need to make any kind of list or mental checklist. I've been shooting for a few years by now and I basically just shoot. I shoot everything that grabs my instinct. Because my instinct has been in and out of the editing room with me for years now, so chances are great that if I have the urge to shoot it, I'll be able to put it to good use later. And also, that if I'll need it, the urge will strike me to tape it on site. (Better to come with a list, but time and practice does add up in some ways, and sometimes you just have to wing it!) So I grabbed stills and pans and zooms and loosey-goosey tracking shots and tight shots and wide shots and what I think of as "experimental" shots, and since the Media and Press element was such an integral part of not only the event but of my entire MTV gig, I made sure to capture lots of news people and photographers, and cameras as well. (Media has also become increasingly more "self-reflexive" and audiences understand relate to that, to the medium of film or TV exposing itself as the mechanism. Once upon a time, even a "direct address," wherein the person on camera looking directly at camera was unsettling to people, as was a close-up, remember. But now it's part of the story. Look at how many shots show people shooting other people with some type of camera!)

And then the applause swelled and the song changned and I knew from the tightly constricted knot of movement on the left front part of the floor that Senator Obama had appeared. I zoomed in and tracked him as he made his way through the throng of people, his Secret Service contingent at the ready. 

Tracking is one of the camera skills in which I take some pride.  It's not easy, and it requires not only a quick-moving thought process, but a keen sense of physical coordination and a loose and yet responsive arm. The quick thinking part comes in because you generally have to lead your subject at least a tiny bit, and know as quickly as possible when to adjust your leading, or lookspace (frame area in front of where the subject is looking), and be right on it when it's time to lag, to change course, or to stop. The faster your subject is moving, the harder it is, of course. The longer your lens, the harder this is, as well.

When you can track an object through a telefoto lens it will add a look of professionalism to your pieces. And really, is a necessary ability for a real shooter. One of the more challenging tracking exercises I did recently was catching leaves falling, one by one to the forest floor. Wow. That was hard. Because you have to either stake out a leaf that might fall and wait for it to do so all zoomed in and ready to tilt down as it falls (no, this is not realistically going to happen!), or you have to watch the entire forest above you for a falling leaf and the second you spot it, zoom to it, pan to it, find it in the viewfinder, and then match its speed and track it down to the earth. A good exercise, but a hard one. This tracking ability, like many others, improves greatly with practice.

I bring this up because the night was an exercise in tracking. While Obama only walked back and forth across the stage, he did it for almost an hour. Additionally, I was zoomed in as much as I could for most of that time, and my tripod was extended high enough (so my camera could see over the cameras in front of me) that my arm was raised above my head as I did this. It's a strenuous position even for five minutes.

So yeah, the next day my torso was so sore I wondered who had nailed me with kidney shots while I was sleeping. And my right shoulder was aching. But I pulled it off! And as we said back in those days of nyc student films and indies, "Pain is temporary; Film is forever! Get the shot!" (Please do not try this Glorification of Celluloid Antics at home.)

While shooting, when my muscles burned too much for me to go on, I backed off to a wider frame—one that showed the width of the entire stage—locked down the camera, and rested. After a minute, I would pick it up again. I only had to rest a couple times in all of the four speakers who addressed the crowd that night.

After the Speech

A few people excitedly asked me the next day what it had been like. Their eyes were gleaming, and they wore anticipatory smiles as they awaited my recounting of the evening. They know I enjoy telling stories if it comes to it (did you guess?) and this was a big one for their town. Those who asked me this had not, of course, been able to attend and they were sure I would give them a delicious blow-by-blow. But the truth is, I could not. 

It is quite a job to successfully capture such an event as one person. My memories of the evening were almost entirely of hunger, of batteries, of checking audio levels, wire connections, white balance, of minding my Remaining Tape Level, preparing cassettes and labels, storing used ones safely, minding my tripod so that I didn't trip on it, keeping the subject in frame, keeping an eye out for visual treats and sudden finds, seeking interviews, getting releases signed, not losing anything I had brought with me, especially my Press Pass. And of course, there are always those moments to deal with that pop up unexpectedly. Like when you realize you have no cable. Or that if you do, it's not long enough. Or that you are getting no sound at all from your mics for some reason.

So, there was not one moment in which I could fully relax enough to become a passive receptor of the speaker's message or his vibe. I monitored all the disparate elements I knew I'd have to bring back to the editing process, and made sure I got each one, or tried. And I also monitored peoples' emotional experiences, but coldly; as a technician. As someone there to capture that experience and show it to others, in that the tale might be told. 

But after the speech, I was allowed just a bit to dive into the psychic turbulence and emotional flow that is at the core of any type of gathering. When I breathed that sigh after shooting two tapes and starting a third (and checking briefly to see that my footage had been captured to tape), I knew that no matter what had not gone perfectly, I had enough. I got what I came for. I stepped off the riser after breaking down my rig and giving back any borrowed items, and into the dispersing crowd. I felt the sound and the buzz and the energy that was coursing through the building as I waved goodnight to those people guarding the press entrance, and made my way outside.

Outside Mac Court

I walked my camera outside and ducked into an alcove. The sidewalk, quite unlike a normal day at Mac Court, was crowded and lit and felt to me like a piece of a bustling city that had been torn free and dropped down into Eugene. There were people hawking T shirts, and people squeezing left and right so that they could get past you, and shouts, and anchors doing standups, buses departing, and a level of energy that was clearly not of the normal fabric of the area. (Excluding, of course, the nights the Ducks win a game!)

I found a huddled group of excited young men and women and asked them if they would like to talk to me and tell me what their experience was. I don't remember my exact words. It's good to feel these words out. It's amazing how much more you can get someone to say—or how quickly you can shut them down—depending on how you solicit their participation. These words can depend on many things. Age, class, the moment, how you look and sound, and a dizzying variety of combinations of these and more. But in general, of course, you want to make someone feel safe, good, friendly, important, accepted and even celebrated. You want to shrink into the background, and become a stage upon which they are happy to express themselves. Of course, as I touched on in my News From Nezua [1], sometimes people just don't want to talk! You just have to keep trying. Until it doesn't feel right to keep trying.

The three young men who spoke to me on camera were very excited, and reminded me what it is that Obama brings out in people. They were brimming over with energy, and inspiration, with the idea that changes they had been raised believing in were about to happen, that they could take part in this, and that Senator Obama was the one to bring it all together at this moment in time. As exhausted as I was, just taping them woke me up a bit. Their hope and enthusiasm were undeniably contagious. It was a mood that seemed to linger in the city of Eugene for days after Obama had left.