Scottish Tattoo Convention – Part 1
“Excuse me!” Do you mind if I take your photo?”
I’d finally said it. Now was the moment of truth. Would he say yes, or would he punch me in the face and smash my camera?
This weekend past, Rogan and I went to the Scottish Tattoo Convention in Edinburgh. Neither of us sought, or left with, a tattoo (I think Maggie might quite possibly have divorced me if either of us had returned with one) – we were there to take photos. Or rather I was there to take photos and Rogan was along for the ride.
Rewind to last Autumn when I was in Bathgate taking photos of The Sex Pistols Experience. The lead singer of the support band, Cash From Chaos, is a guy called Skid, and I took some photos of him and his band on the same evening.
Delighted with the images, he asked me if I’d be interested in attending the Scottish Tattoo Convention in Edinburgh – he knew the organisers, his band was playing there and he could get me and Rogan a pass.
As someone who loves faces, the opportunity to take photos of people milling around with tattoos, piercings and probably a few wild hairstyles too, seemed too good to miss.
However, there were 2 major problems to overcome. The 1st was how I was going to manage to get to Edinburgh and back, and enjoy the convention with the limited energy I have because of the CFS.
We decided to drive up early on Saturday morning – it’s about 2½ hours to Edinburgh – stay overnight at a Travelodge on the outskirts and drive home on Sunday. During the mid-afternoon, when my energy levels are at their lowest, I put the car seat down and rested for a couple of hours in car park.
This worked, although I am paying the price this week with (even more) excessive tiredness.
The 2nd problem was how I was going to overcome my reticence at asking random strangers if it would be ok to take their photo. The very thought of it made my stomach knot up and would bring me out in a cold sweat.
It’s a very different thing to take a photo of someone you know, or a client who wants (is indeed paying) you to, than it is to intrude on someone else’s personal space, uninvited.
When we entered the convention there were hundreds of people I would love to have had in a studio to photograph. Outlandish hairstyles, multiple facial piercings and, of course, the biggest collection of tattoos I have ever seen.
I couldn’t back down now, and return without photographing anyone. Not only would I feel sick at myself for chickening out, but I had Rogan with me, and I couldn’t lose face in front of my son.
There was no choice. A guy with studs protruding from under his lips and a tattoo on his neck, poking up from under his t-shirt, was heading in our direction.
“Excuse me!” Do you mind if I take your photo?”
Part 2 to follow.
I’d finally said it. Now was the moment of truth. Would he say yes, or would he punch me in the face and smash my camera?
This weekend past, Rogan and I went to the Scottish Tattoo Convention in Edinburgh. Neither of us sought, or left with, a tattoo (I think Maggie might quite possibly have divorced me if either of us had returned with one) – we were there to take photos. Or rather I was there to take photos and Rogan was along for the ride.
Rewind to last Autumn when I was in Bathgate taking photos of The Sex Pistols Experience. The lead singer of the support band, Cash From Chaos, is a guy called Skid, and I took some photos of him and his band on the same evening.
Delighted with the images, he asked me if I’d be interested in attending the Scottish Tattoo Convention in Edinburgh – he knew the organisers, his band was playing there and he could get me and Rogan a pass.
As someone who loves faces, the opportunity to take photos of people milling around with tattoos, piercings and probably a few wild hairstyles too, seemed too good to miss.
However, there were 2 major problems to overcome. The 1st was how I was going to manage to get to Edinburgh and back, and enjoy the convention with the limited energy I have because of the CFS.
We decided to drive up early on Saturday morning – it’s about 2½ hours to Edinburgh – stay overnight at a Travelodge on the outskirts and drive home on Sunday. During the mid-afternoon, when my energy levels are at their lowest, I put the car seat down and rested for a couple of hours in car park.
This worked, although I am paying the price this week with (even more) excessive tiredness.
The 2nd problem was how I was going to overcome my reticence at asking random strangers if it would be ok to take their photo. The very thought of it made my stomach knot up and would bring me out in a cold sweat.
It’s a very different thing to take a photo of someone you know, or a client who wants (is indeed paying) you to, than it is to intrude on someone else’s personal space, uninvited.
When we entered the convention there were hundreds of people I would love to have had in a studio to photograph. Outlandish hairstyles, multiple facial piercings and, of course, the biggest collection of tattoos I have ever seen.
I couldn’t back down now, and return without photographing anyone. Not only would I feel sick at myself for chickening out, but I had Rogan with me, and I couldn’t lose face in front of my son.
There was no choice. A guy with studs protruding from under his lips and a tattoo on his neck, poking up from under his t-shirt, was heading in our direction.
“Excuse me!” Do you mind if I take your photo?”
Part 2 to follow.
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