The Odd web site that allows you to take new photos and make them look old, black and white, sepia, and share ‘em with others, Instagram, was purchased by Facebook last month for one billion dollars.
The purchased site has no income model. It might give an investor pause about giving Facebook money to buy things with, but presumably, they have wisdom I lack.
Art Linkletter was once offered exclusive rights to the photo business at Disneyland, by Walt, when Walt was raising capital—Art scoffed. Kodak later banked billions. Of course, today Polaroid and Kodak, a corpse and a zombie.
At the SuperConference, I posed with people for hundreds of photos. Taking photos can wind up embarrassing.
First Lady Rosalyn Carter is in a photo, posed, shaking hands with John Wayne Gacy, who turned out to be a serial killer of some infamy. You can Google him. Before the photo opp, he did have a felony conviction for sodomy, and should not have passed security clearance.
There is a photo of Saddam Hussein receiving “The Key to the City” at a ceremony in Detroit, Michigan in 1980.
You really never know when somebody you’re posing with for a photo may later turn out to be a serial killer, mass murderer or worse.
I give a standard caveat: “1. You can’t use this photo for any purpose implying direct commercial endorsement. 2. If convicted of an embarrassing felony, you can’t use it anymore at all. Misdemeanors don’t count.”
It’s kinda unenforceable though. Once on Facebook, it apparently stays on Facebook. In the run-up to the SuperConference, I’m told people trotted out all their photos with me all over their social media sites and I imagine I was even Instagrammed, all flattering, appreciated, and harboring peril.
All this, the nature of the beast of my life and I’ve made it.
There is always the risk of looking goofy in a photo and having that preserved for posterity and widely circulated. (The photo here), from Easter, shows what can happen to The Million Dollar Dog when I’m not around to protect her.
In nearly 40 years of being photographed, I’m sure there are photos of me looking peeved and eager to get away from the person posed with me, of me looking down at cleavage I shouldn’t be—although, if it’s on display, me with eyes closed, a spittle on lip, collar asunder, wearing a stupid hat or incredibly garish outfit, etc.
There is no Michael Phelps photo: not only didn’t I inhale, I never smoked the stuff.
Sadly, there is no video of sexual acrobatics either.
I have a few home movies converted to video and a few photos from childhood locked away that I don’t like, a couple first wedding photos, quite a few early speaking career photos with me bearing a huge head of hair (I used to get a perm) and a far bushier mustache, there are my fat-Dan photos (at 235-250).
There are photos of me posed next to famous people too, although I have worked with many I’ve not troubled to get photos with too. In a few cases, I wish I had.
There’s a photo of me with Ronald Reagan, but the damn photographer refused to just take a candid one as we talked, and the posed one makes Reagan look like a wax dummy. I have a photo of me with a wax dummy of Madonna that looks more real.
There is a photo of me on stage with Gene Simmons, but it would be way more-cool if he’d been in full KISS regalia—establishing my status as an opening act for KISS.
My office walls are filled with my win photos from driving in races, which I once religiously up-dated week by week but has now fallen 20 or so wins behind, the photos stacked, waiting to be framed; me too busy.
Perhaps too busy at the wrong things.
The win photos are important in keeping me working, ‘cuz, at this point, the only thing I am working for is oats ‘n vet bills.
Most people have enormous collections of photos spanning their lifetimes, and of their parents, kid, grand-kids, pets, houses, cars and more, and are into getting them organized in scrapbooks, looking at them with family and friends, sharing them with others, now posting them to social media.
I’m not so into this myself, but that’s just me. Most are.
Most are sentimental about their photos—and even photos that aren’t theirs. There are iconic photos from American history that many people react to very personally.
The kiss on V-Day after WWII, JFK and Jackie, those sorts of photos. I imagine this is why the right photographic image can be so powerful in advertising, something you should never forget; as a copywriter embroiled with the written word, I have to remind myself of this. A photo can get to emotional response instantly while words cannot.
I have never actually seen a photo of me I really like, and early on, I very much resisted making myself the focal point of my marketing; resisted using photos of myself on book covers, cassette album covers and the like.
I have not gotten over this, but I long ago got past it. (There is a difference.) I’m a very big “what works” and “whatever it takes” guy, especially on relatively minor matters that make possible my autonomy and independence on matters major to me.
This is something a lot of people do not understand, that could be of great benefit to them. That photo of me on the albino bull, me in a business suit, us in the Arizona desert, has been worth millions to me and to others, so I guess that’s the photo of me I do like, or dislike the least.
I spent $2,500.00 getting it done, at a time when $2,500.00 was NOT pocket change to me. There is a photo first used for the No B.S. Letter of giant, steaming cow patty in grass I did like, but Carla hated it, so it was short-lived.
There are a couple of photos of Carla and I that I especially like, one of my father in my office. Others of my father and parents I’d like to have but one of my brothers let them disappear in a storage shed abandoned, rent unpaid, moons ago. A nice photo album our daughter Jennifer made of our family trip to Disney.
There is a photo I don’t have, for which I offer a $5,000.00 cash reward or half-day consulting reward—but the photo must be authenticated, no risk of having been photo-shopped (a modern evil): a photo of Dean Martin in or with this Rolls-Royce convertible that I now own.
I have the title, his original Owner’s Card, all kinds of documents, no photo. An extensive hunt has occurred, but you’re welcome to try.
Photographers have their place in the comic book/super-hero world, of which I am both a fan and a serious student.
Superman/Clark Kent’s pal and colleague was the young Jimmy Olsen, news photographer for The Daily Planet, frequently accompanying Lois Lane, the reporter.
Spiderman/Peter Parker, a news photographer. In every way, photography is a big part of our lives, our culture, our history, and our advertising.
Most catalogs rely on photos—Peterman famously deviates. Virtually all product packaging relies on photos. You’ll pay hell trying to sell weight-loss without photos of all the great food you can still eat while on Diet X.
Politicians’ consultants and handlers work feverishly at “photo opps.” Michael Deaver, with Reagan, was a genius at it. And the wrong photo can destroy a candidate: Dukakis in the tank, Kerry wind-surfing, Kerry pretending to be hunting, Donna Rice on Gary Hart’s lap on his boat named ‘Monkey Business.’ The photo of Jane Fonda with the tank in North Viet Nam earned her “Hanoi Jane” and has never been forgotten or forgiven.
I have long had a near photographic memory for many things, including certain kinds of information, yet I have a severely dysfunctional memory for peoples’ names and ages and for dates and I rarely notice changes in peoples’ appearances.
I have a photographic ear even more so, for dialogue, for jokes and material and that has been and is very useful. I can record long conversations or stories in my head and recall and write them out verbatim and I can write in other peoples’ voices – and often do, for celebrities like Fran Tarkenton and Joan Rivers and Jennifer Love-Hewitt and Florence Henderson and of course, for copywriting and ghost-writing.
You know, The Million Dollar Dog doesn’t look that unhappy, being posed with the pink bunny ears for Easter. Maybe confused, thinking she was being tapped as a Playmate of the Month for Playboy. Or maybe just grinning and bearing it just like I do when the camera comes out.