A Little Bit of Video

The other day somebody told me something along the lines of, “But it’s only a little video. It doesn’t need to be fancy.”

And everybody that’s ever made any sort of motion pictures ever simultaneously rolled their eyes.

Here is the thing… that is one hundred percent correct: video doesn’t need to be fancy!  If you have an iPhone you can make a movie and tell a story with just a little production value.  

But you can’t have just a little context.  Heartfelt Interview with a lot of laughter in the background feels less heartfelt than Heartfelt Interview with clean sound, or Heartfelt Interview that never says what exact Heartfelt Issue we’re addressing.  It takes time and energy to set context up no matter what.

There’s this guy that is kind of a staple in film school curriculum by the name Kuleshov. He taught at the first film school ever.  He’s kind of a big deal.

Basically, this Kuleshov character cuts together a shot of an old man at a table acting very neutrally with several different cutaway shots: a bowl of soup, a young child, and a coffin. He screened the three different pairings of the old man + one of the three shots to his students, and depending on what the second image was, that determined how the viewers saw the old man.  When he was with the soup, they thought he was hungry.  When he was with the coffin, they thought he was mournful.  You get the idea.

So I thought I’d try Kuleshov’s experiment on myself.  I used one line, “My name is Rory Gordon and I make videos,” seven different times.

More than your words. from Rory Gordon on Vimeo.

I look, in order: 

Normal*, Sexy**, Creepy***, Clueless****, Aloof, Like a Crazy Cat Lady, Normal again.

All of these are on top of “ridiculous” obviously.

My point in all this: be deliberate with your video.  Just because all you want is a 60 second montage of you at work, be mindful that the most professional mission statement in the world won’t hold up if you’re saying it half naked, if the sound is bad, or if otherwise what you show doesn’t back up the words you say. The magic word is context.

And when you hire a professional like me, that’s what you actually pay for: not my gear, but my ability to set up context in which you look like a deliberate version of yourself. I’m not fancy: I’m just a good story teller… which is fortunately for me, not something that Apple has figured out how to sell in that sexy minimal packaging yet. Fingers crossed.

PS - Anyone out there have any experience where you didn’t look like yourself in a photo or video?  Let’s commiserate.

*As normal as possible with me anyway.
**If jailbait is ever sexy and I am ever not completely awkward.
***More than my usual “staring at you unblinking behind a camera” creepy.
****As if I’m not always. 

When in Oklahoma

Welcome to the thrilling conclusion to this tepid saga!  This is just one chapter in the story of my own business, going from part-time Williams-Sonoma chef to colorist and beyond.  Thanks for following along.

I have this theory that Oklahoma is actually like a fly trap for creative people.  Seriously, when the only thing to do as a teenager is drive around and stare at flat land, it’s pretty good motivation to make something more interesting. I have a distinct memory of being sixteen, spending an entire spring break driving around Southern Oklahoma aimlessly and feeling like every inch of those plains was filled with possibility. The Flaming Lips, The Starlight Mints, Will Rogers: there are a boatload of talented people who have called Oklahoma home.  Oklahomies, you know.

In Oklahoma, I had a shoot with Braid Creative to look forward to.  I was delighted when earlier in the fall I got an email from Kathleen about my small business video essays.  I had connected with her earlier because she’s awesome, the internet makes the world a smaller place, and funny enough - she lives in my old ‘hood. She thought a small business essay was a kick-ass idea and she and Tara were a kick-ass fit for one.  Meanwhile their approach to small business coaching was something my tiny, sputtering enterprise could really do well with. I showed up to Braid Creative and was there for maybe five minutes before I knew we were all going to get gold.

Braid Is In It. from Rory Gordon on Vimeo.

My video essay illustrated what made their growing company appealing in an irreverent, researched way.  It was pretty magic to hand in a project that rocked not because of the gear, but because I finally found a client that wanted my perspective and liked the product I most wanted to make.  At the same time, the creative roadmap I got from Tara and Kathleen kind of changed my life. They gave me words for what I have to offer: a simple loud statement to replace the staggering silence I’d previously stumbled over when describing my business.



Now, the roadmap sits on my desktop.  I kind of think of it as a treasure map though, because my spirit animal is an angry pirate.

The best part of the roadmap was seeing my own words echoed back to me, but confirmed and made stronger by a second and third party.  The sisters Braid are more like a second, third, fourth and fifth party.  Their relationship to creative vision is exponential.

I could see I wasn’t just grasping at straws. I looked at our findings and I did have a product people wanted.  I just had to find the right market.  Which was maybe not primarily brides: it was other business owners.  

This was a huge challenge for me to accept, because so many of the photographers I admire are indeed wedding photographers.  And A Practical Wedding practically launched my business, so I felt extremely torn about no longer pursuing wedding photography.

Don’t get me wrong, I have my classic favorite shooters too, but the thing about these wedding industry rogue-agents?  They have such genuine content on their blogs and websites, both their photos and words attract customers as kick-ass as they are. I wanted some of that constantly unfolding narrative. I could see it developing in front of me day after day, thanks to the webernets.

As a young creative professional I am constantly consuming other media, trying to find a balance between looking for inspiration and making something that’s distinctly my own.  The greatest asset the roadmap from Braid provided me was that: a clear picture of what I’m great at.

Because I saw what my niche was, I could find inspiration from anywhere, from anything, at any time, and keep a grip on my different perspective. Anytime I get a little jealous, it pays in scores to have what I really want written down.  I look at the map again and decide if I’m actually envious of something that would help my path.  Usually the answer is no.

I came home from Oklahoma feeling calmer and cleaner, ready to put my business back together in a way that made sense. Ready to invest in the right channels.

We whipped through the plains again, rolled down the windows when we could, filled up when it was cheapest, and were sent off with a lot of snacks packed with love and blue cheese dip. It was much better than the dollar-menu-induced intestinal distress endured on the previous trip.

James got three calls for jobs while we were gone, and when we came back, I was working at the Dailies lab more than ever.  I chose to go in and train with color correction software, even when there wasn’t money attached.  I went from developing my business as Rory Gordon Photo: A Lady That Shoots Businesses and Weddings and Please Hire Me Please…
to Rory Gordon Photo: Portraits of Businesses.

The story gets less dramatic after this point.  I continued to go work at Williams-Sonoma, the lab, and run my business for a while. But most of all, I made a choice.  I’m a professional videographer and colorist, and that’s where I should choose to concentrate my efforts.  I chose to be more concerned with being an imaging professional than paying bills, and it happened.  Slowly, and with hesitation, but it happened. I worked really hard at the lab, and one day I was so tired I just knew I couldn’t do everything anymore. I put in my notice at Williams-Sonoma and that was that.

We didn’t miraculously have more money.  I didn’t have any more connections.  I just rerouted my energy. I brought back some of that magic from the plains.  Feeling like I had choice and options again made me the brokest rich woman in the world.

Outside my office, 2012

If I could tell anyone who was in my shoes from 2011 anything, it’s this: if you find the right path to focus your energy, things will get easier.  And when it happens, please give yourself a treat because finding a path is a huge accomplishment, in and of itself.  Go out for lunch, develop a light soda addiction, start a soft pretzel slush fund.  Even if you discover you’ve got three months left at a day-job, just the knowledge that each step is finite will give you something to go on.

So I leapt.  I began to realize my future might actually include professional imaging science.  And that brings me up pretty much to where I am today.

I remember when I got hired in my first production office I said to my good friend MJ, “This job is going to change everything.” She laughed and said, “This is your first job.  Any job would change everything.”

View from inside my first production office, 2010.

That’s still true.  Any job I take is important, because now I choose to take it with conviction and clarity of mind.  Any job I take gives me another choice, which makes me a little richer.

And anything could change with the next choice.

Thanks for listening.

Home on the Range, Sort of

Tales from the Unfunded

I thought about this story the other day of an indie film set I worked on as an unpaid camera assistant in film school, so I went back and harvested it from the ol’ film school blog.  I was extremely bitter despite nothing much happening, but it still makes me laugh, so I’m reposting it.  This, by the way, is LIGHT YEARS away from almost all the shows I’ve worked on here in LA. 

5:59 AM : Reverse down one way street to get to location.

6:00AM: Call director when I notice the building is desolate and there are no cars in the parking lot that have not clearly been abandoned.

6:05AM: Director informs me he is late when he returns my call.

6:08AM: Receive text message from director saying he will be a few more minutes.

6:15AM: Commence search on mobile device for “boyfriend gifts”

6:24AM: The rest of the crew arrives. Meet Luke, the DP, a dreadlocked dude with a worried face.

6:25AM: Homeless couple walks by me and they go into the building. Not only is it a soundstage, it’s a shelter!

6:26AM: Make my way up the stairs, led by George, the first producer I’m introduced to.

6:30AM: I walk into the “studio,” which is a condemned warehouse formerly used for building furniture. The room is a large cavern, probably 60 feet by 60 feet, with sawdust coating the entire space, nails protruding upwards from the floor like malevolent blades of grass, and boxes and boxes of broken mirrors and trash. Also, there is a huge saw in the middle of the “set,” which looks like a torture instrument of dubious legality. The set is a fake wall with a hole in it, but they only built one side and are going to “flip” the shots in order to get full coverage. I ask about a clean place to put the camera gear, and George the Henchman replies, “Well, you can use these tables, but don’t go in the hall because there are some people here… well, it would be safer in here.” Great, thank you, Fake Producer. The tables are COVERED IN SAWDUST and the camera cases are on wheels so if I work on top of them it’s going to be nothing but a vaudeville show.
Fake producer George suggests I go upstairs and use the “office” in there. I am relieved. However, he leads me up a rickety staircase to a second story of the warehouse MADE OUT OF BALSA WOOD, exactly like a tree house. He grabs some old newspapers and puts it on the floor for me to protect the gear, smiling winningly. George runs off to assist the rest of the crew, and I set myself up. First, I have to locate a chair. I find one, covered in dust, which of course I do not realize until I sit my happy ass down and get up to see my black pants have changed color. Looking down, I notice a series of holes in the floor. Great!

6:40AM: I go downstairs, get the gear and continue setting up the camera, shuffling down the tree house ladder any time I need something from a kit. The DP arrives again, and asks me if I could find a piece of card-board to tape his homemade graycard to. Ooo-kay.

7:00AM: The director, Leonard* is missing and Fake Producer George finally calls across the room, “He’s getting coffee!” He asks me if I’d like anything and to my horror I realize there is no craft service. (Does everyone know what crafty is? Leave a comment if not…) For a girl of my metabolism, going twelve hours, hell, going three hours without snacking is NOT an option. I eat a lot and I use a lot of calories when I’m working. However, any time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or window, the scrawny little white girl lifting cases the weight of my fourteen year old cousin, I have an odd little proud reflective moment.

7:30AM: I finish setting up the camera, and just as I’m popping it on the tripod, a HOARD OF OLD IMMIGRANTS come storming in the door. Most of them do not speak coherently, however one affectionately calls me sweetie when he’s telling me to get out of the way (sarcasm). They proceed towards the large saw in the middle of the room, tip it on to its side, and bring it out the door, knocking a piece of wall on the way. As I look up, I am reminded the same material they just busted a hole in is stronger that the floor of my workstation.

7:40AM: Ralph comes up and introduces himself to me. He “not a film dude,” but was rather once the carpenter that owned the warehouse. He is our gaffer for the day.

7:43AM: It suddenly occurs to me with horror that the crew is only 4 deep for the entire shoot.

7:45AM: It also occurs to me with horror that I agreed to work for these knuckleheads, for free, for 36 hours in the next three days.

8:00AM: The director finally returns with coffee, and presents it like a preschooler might present a finger painting. Gee, thanks, Indie McGee. You’re almost barely meeting incredibly basic industry standards.

8:10AM: My stomach starts to feel a little queezy. Actually, stabbing pain that feels like my stomach is rotting out of my knees and being replaced with leaden casserole is a little more accurate.

8:30AM: The director approaches me and asks if I would mind lifting some stuff for him. I hesitate and say yes, I would mind. The director laughs at me and says, “We all are acting like PA’s today.” I am not amused.

8:35AM: I sprint to the bathroom and spend twenty minutes in the can, literally worried sick.

8:55AM: I wander back in to the soundstage and I meet Fake Producer 2, Leonard’s wife, Katrina. She smiles condescendingly and walks off with the craft service, which has finally arrived.

9:00AM: Leonard asks me if I want to see the storyboards, corrects himself, and asks if I know what they are. I decline.

9:01AM: I run back in to the bathroom, colliding with the geriatric janitor. He is actually the nicest person I have met all day, and quickly steps outside in to the hall. I spend five minutes dry heaving into the calcified toilet.

9:10AM: I walk back in the “studio,” notice that Leonard’s actor is using the makeshift second floor to jump off for a “sweet shot.” I run back upstairs to check in on the “staging area.” There is a 1200 watt HMI (large, daylight balanced light) IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING DOORWAY. Clearly, the knuckleheads do not know what they are doing, as the cable is twisted and knotted, also blocking the doorway. I fear for my safety.

9:30AM: I run back downstairs on my way to heave in the bathroom, and bump in to Leonard again, who proudly tells me he is always happy to give students like myself a “chance at the real world.” He also tells me that Luke will let me operate a few shots too. Let me explain why this is utter bullshit. The camera in use on this partifular shoot is one I’ve been using myself since my first year in film school. Not only is this halfwit convinced he’s going to use my camera assistant labor for free, he also thinks he can swindle me into operating for free! Once again, I attempt to smile and say thank you and run out the door back to the bathroom.

9:45AM: I bump into the janitor again, who politely leaves again. I collapse on the floor of the bathroom, quickly realize I’m sitting on more bacteria than a 72 pack of Dannon yogurt, and scamper out in to the hallway. I sit down and cry, trying to convince myself I won’t be a total loser if I leave.

10:00AM: I walk back in to the studio. Ralph tells me I look like “death warmed over.” I feel like it. I find Luke and tell him I won’t be of much use to him, that I’m having a personal problem and I have to go.

10:03AM: I run out of the building so fast I’m still putting on my coat when I get to my car. I’m so freaked to get out of there I don’t even de-ice my window all the way.

10:30AM: Collapse, trembling, in to bed.

*Names changed to protect the stupid.

Been through the Desert in a PT Cruiser with a Name

Here’s part three of my epic employment musical chairs.  Next, we take a detour.

It certainly wasn’t currently in the budget, but I knew we had to get home and visit my family.  It had been six months since I’d seen them and we’d, you know, gotten married since then. It was time. And also, I had a shoot there. So duh, of course we’ll drive for two days on fumes and adrenaline.

I did not have evidence or faith before we set off to go to Oklahoma we could actually pay for February’s rent when we returned.  

I was so worried sick about money, I made us leave at 2am in the morning, thinking we could make the 24 hour drive without stopping the night and paying for a hotel. In fact, when we stopped at a fast food joint around 9am that morning to take a nap, I was so tired I left the headlights on.  This killed the battery in James’ PT Cruiser, Lily, and was Sign Number One I needed to chill the fart out and slow down.  Fortunately, I’ve been a AAA member for six years now, because I am the most boring 20 something on Earth.  The friendly tow-guy steered us clear from the rip-off border-town mechanics.  Then I got roadside Indian food and we pressed on.

The drive started fine.  James hates going through New Mexico where it’s flat and straight as the eye can see, but I love it.  I’m a very nervous person by nature, and for some reason the only two places that really bring me peace are in the heart of a big city and in the middle of the desert.  My logic in both places is: why worry when you are such a small thing in such a big place?



I drove until we got to Texas, and James took over. We were about an hour away from Oklahoma. And then there was a cop car behind us.

The speed limit was 70, and James was going exactly 73 miles per hour, thanks to cruise control.  The cop car stayed behind us.  So he bumped it down to 71 miles per hour. And then he bumped it down to 69 miles per hour.  And then the cop car started driving in our blind spot.  We got down to 61 before he finally pulled us over.

I was busy playing solitaire on my phone and wasn’t worried too much.  “What has he got on us?” I told a shaking James.  When James nervously finally got the window to roll down, we saw a Texan cop to put the Duke to shame.  Giant ten gallon hat, visible firearm.  And cranky.

He told us we were going a little fast, and then had James step out of the car.  I immediately started composing a pithy tweet hinting at my feelings for Texas, but was interrupted by the cop, once again knocking at my door.

“Ma’am,” said the Texan cop, “Your husband has given us permission to search your vehicle.”

I didn’t argue, though I tried to throw my Okie accent back on and politely ask what we’d done wrong. His exact words were, “When folks look as nervous as you two do, it’s often times a lot worse than speeding: criminal behavior.”

I stepped out of the car and noticed a second cop had pulled over.  No one else was around for miles.

And poor James was being cornered by the second cop.  And then I started laughing, because I realized they thought we were drug traffickers.  In a  PT Cruiser.  The cop’s eyes drifted down to my hip pocket: my cellphone.  He told me to leave it in the car.  It was still a funny situation, but a little frightening that somewhere in Texas there is a cop that probably still thinks I’m a drug dealer.  

They searched and searched our car, and I could see in their eyes irritation when they realized the vehicle was full of road trip comforts, packed to the gills with blankets and snacks and a bunch of books I would dutifully ignore once home. Then they got very serious.  They pulled a long, narrow box from my car and tore into it like toddlers on Christmas morning. James and I looked at each other and started laughing, knowing they found an empty plastic bag inside; it was the packaging from my monopod.  

I stared out at the biggest sky in the country and wondered how I’d gotten myself into this ridiculous situation.

Insert pretentious cliche bag in the wind photo.

They eventually let us go and we drove on, stopping once again for a cup of coffee to calm our nerves.  

I almost made James turn around, thinking it was a sign of a bad vacation to come.  Going home is always loaded with fears of being judged.  When your family doesn’t see you for six months? Weight gained, the width of your smile compared to last time, all these things are more obvious.  

But James patted my leg and looked at me without ever needing to say, “You’re nuts.  We’re three hours away. No one is going to judge you for getting pulled over by a crazy Texan.” But he said it anyway, because that’s how he rolls.

And before I knew it we rolled into my dad’s driveway.

Next on Tuesday, Part 4: Home on the Range, Sort Of.

Weird Soda A-Fizz-Cionado

I kind of have a thing for weird soda, so the other day when James and I were in desperate need of a five dollar date we went up to Pasadena and visited Rocket Fizz Soda shop.

Let me assure you, this weird soda aficionado was greatly pleased.

They had quite the selection of Avery’s.  I was attracted to the simple packaging of the classic flavors, but they also produce a line of hilarious crowd-pleasers like Kitty Piddle, Zombie Brain Juice, Dog Drool, etc. 

We chose these:

I tried Avery’s Birch Beer.  Birch beer tastes like a combination between cream soda and root beer.  It’s very sweet, but with a little bit of that medicinal earthy undertone.  I give it a firm pinkie up, “pinkie up” since this is a fancy soda review and all and I should probably use some damn proper etiquette or at least pretend I wasn’t raised in a barn.  I think a little less sweetness would bring that up to two pinkies for me. The sugar is a bit overpowering to the delicious birch flavor.

Next, I convinced James to get the Buffalo Wing Soda, by Lester’s Fixins.  And we scored bigtime.

Imagine an Orange Crush, but with a subtle tang on the top note.  If you’ve ever had ketchup chips, that sort of spicy-sweet combination came to mind.  I could also get a subtle burst of the tomato flavor as the taste left my mouth.  It was spicy, but in this case I thought the sugar level was quite complimentary.  The sweetness cooled it off from being unpleasant.  Two firm pinkies up, if just for making Buffalo Wing flavor in a soda not vomit-inducing.

Tune in next time as I further develop my love of strange pop. Until then, stay bubbly. And brush your teeth.