guest post: Attitude - a life legacy

One of the side-benefits of maintaining a site such as Tangents, is that I get to meet a wide spectrum of people from across the world, whether in person or via phone or email.

One of the most interesting emails I received recently was from a photographer in South Africa – Johannes van Graan. From 1994 to date he has been practising internationally in the fields of nuclear and mining project management in which photography in all its forms plays a pivotal role. For the past five years he specialized in very specific areas of engineering forensics and is currently the CEO of an organisation specialising in the packaging of engineering forensic evidence for litigation.

One of the people who helped shape Johannes’ career path, and outlook on life, was a Mr van Niekerk. In his initial email, Johannes wanted to know if I was related in any way to the Mr van Niekerk he had known. From his description, I wish I had known him – he sounds like he was a truly interesting character.

In Johannes’ words:

Regarding two phases of my career in the South African Air Force, I was extremely privileged to have been mentored by a Mr van Niekerk during the early 1980s. Although retired from professional photography at that stage, he was brought back as a civilian expert by the late Genl Tienie Groenewald to head up training of specialists at the Central Photographic Establishment, at that time located at Waterkloof Air Force Base.

Not only was he a strict and straightforward mentor – but his extraordinary wisdom and expertise in the fields of false colour photography; infrared; aerial photography; stereography and a myriad of photographic techniques left a permanent and everlasting impression on everyone privileged to have been under his mentorship. Unfortunately – if my recollections are correct – Mr van Niekerk finally retired during 1985/86.

The very last time I saw him was when I paid a visit to CPE as a Lieutenant-Colonel to say goodbye as I was off to Jamba in Angola. I also picked up a Contax, bulk film cassettes (magical 120 frames), developing tank and some excellent Zeiss glass. I’ll never forget his stern instruction “Johnny – make sure that you return these items without any external signs of wear and remember what I taught you about attitude.” The “attitude lesson” is an amazing story – if you so wish I will share it with you – but it is one of those teachings that changed not only my attitude in life but also the way I approach photography.

Johannes keeps extensive diaries and he forwarded the story to me when I asked. I found it inspiring and very interesting … and thought it would be of huge interest to the followers of the Tangents blog. It’s a long recounting, but worth spending a few minutes on. There’s a deep lesson here for all of us.

As an aside – the two images posted here have no direct relevance to the this article, other than to be splashes of color.

Attitude. A life legacy.

a guest post by Johannes van Graan

March 1986. I turned 29. Our youngest daughter was almost a year old and I was an officer in the South African Air Force with the rank of Captain. Career wise things were very challenging. The country was waging a prolonged war. In practical terms that meant more than half the year spent away from home. I was also in my final year of postgraduate studies and became an expert in studying under all sorts of operational conditions.

The wives of operational Air Force officers were (and still are in this day and age) in more than one sense “artificial widows.” Believe me – being an Air Force wife remains a very tough job. Especially when there are kids. In my case I had a stroke of luck. I married a very sexy lady who was handling intelligence matters for one of the front-line squadrons. She came from an Air Force family so she knew exactly what lay in store the day she said “yes.” A month before our marriage she resigned from the Air Force and commenced studying to become a health and fitness trainer. That was 1982. October to be exact. In December that year I received my first operational command. Far away from home. Very, very far away. In another country.

Two days before I left for my first six months as commanding officer I went with her for a medical check-up. Just a routine one. Or so I thought.

The day I left was spent with senior staff officers who briefed me on operational matters relating to the task at hand. My wife had to say goodbye at the airport. Normally no big deal – even to this day – flying is in our blood so we don’t cry at airports. But that evening she cried. I had to hold back mine. I was to become a father. She knew that the months ahead would be lonely and difficult. And it was.

Operationally and qualification wise I had a remarkable edge at that stage. In the years before 1982 I volunteered wherever the action was and was not only qualified aviation wise but also in matters relating to reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. I had wonderful mentors. Dedicated people. Professional photographic training and almost limitless film. And we had wonderful camera equipment. And I mean wonderful. Wonderful to handle. Wonderful in terms of reliability. Wonderful in terms of feel. Wonderful in terms of all-weather capability. What was it?

Contax RTS II. Kitted with a range of absolutely marvellous Zeiss glass. These were not cameras. These were rugged machines of war. To this day I will bet my life on it any time. This thing even had a titanium shutter! From what I can remember rated for something that 400,000 actuations. And it could take a bulk film back holding 250 frames. Or a smaller 120 frames back especially developed for the SA Air Force. And the never- to-forget Metz 45 CT-1. Were also had highly portable developing kits and were trained, and trained again and again to make sure that what comes out of the camera must be printable without any touch-ups.

As was the case with weapons, pilot watches and sunglasses one had to literally sign one’s life away to have it in one’s possession. But there was also a key advantage. Unlike the case was with the Army and Navy, the Air Force issued the camera kit to an individual. There was no such a thing as a “pool camera”. In practical terms this meant that one was able to “moonlight” with the camera kit – but there was a condition – one had to buy one’s own film and pay for one’s own developing and printing. Thinking back – actually not a bad deal – because it forced one to use the camera in non-combat situations thereby developing some other skills as well.

By the time we got married I had a fairly good command of black and white and sometimes colour transparency (slide film) photography. And to make a little bit of money on the side I did the typical “wedding photography” and “year-end function” thing. But the main focus remained intelligence gathering under very harsh and lonely conditions. Although film was technically speaking “limitless” the big issue remained operational availability. Simply put – camera body, two lenses, cleaning kit and isolated film holders with bulk film had to be carried into the reconnaissance zone. No big deal. But how much do you need for two or three months? And what is the objective? When should the film be developed? All key questions that determines one’s mind-set when it comes to snapping away. Lying for days and sometimes weeks concealed in African bush is no joke. Not a joke if you know that when caught the enemy will murder you very, very slowly. That is if you survive the initial welcoming torture. Also no joke if you know that future operations depend almost entirely on what you photograph. So framing each and every shot became hypercritical.

The years between 1982 and 1986 literally flashed by. I had an extraordinary exciting operational career. In those four years I not only gained operational command experience but I also managed to enrol for postgraduate studies. In 1985 we were blessed with another daughter. Mid 1986 my wife completed her studies. She was super fit and stunning. Being highly motivated she quickly became much in demand as personal trainer and life coach.

August 1986. One of her upmarket clients told her about a national gymnastics event at one of the country’s main sports centres scheduled for October. As head of organising she wanted a top-level “professional” action photographer. One like me. Why? About a month before I took some very stunning photographs of another friend’s wedding. She was there. With my trusted Contax RTSII and manual focus Zeiss glass. And the 45CT-1. So the scene was set. Success and fame on the horizon.

My wife obtained the numbers. I did the calculations. (After all that is what aviators are or at least should be good at). Just more than 200 gymnasts were to compete over a period of two days. Guaranteed entries. So a captive market. How nice. Godsend. Answer to our prayers. Golden opportunity. With a fair profit margin we will be able to repay study loans and have a bit of extra.

Now for the maths. On average each gymnast will do at least 11 movements and considering some 4 other opening shots for each gymnast plus a factor of 2 for bracketing produced a very cool minimum number – 6000 if using 200 as a baseline. That is the frame count. Now for the printing part. Because that is where the real profit was. Consider that parents, grandparents and participants would like prints of at least 3 movements it brings the printing baseline to at least 15 per competitor. A very lucrative 3000 prints! With the potential of some enlargements not something to frown about. Now what about competition?

None. Absolutely none. My wife’s friend organised exclusive rights. Wasn’t that nice?

For some reason – to this day I don’t know whether its genetics or sins of my forefathers – everything I tackle would turn out to be a challenge. I had the business lined up. I had the program. I even had the contact details of the participants. But as I reviewed the numbers the real challenge slowly but surely surfaced. Almost like the massive crocodiles I saw in some of the African countries I operated in. Challenges emerging one by one but very slowly until it suddenly jump out and attacks. Challenges? What challenges?

I’ve never shot gymnastics – at least not the civilised version thereof. To manual focus the Zeiss lenses would definitely not place me in a position to capture every movement. So I had to find something that would do the job. But this cloud of challenge had a silver lining. Or that’s at least what I saw. A silver lining in the form of the revolutionary Pentax SFX. Although not nearly as rugged as the Contax, this camera was the first autofocus 35mm with built in TTL capacity. A marvel of its time.

Earlier that year the South African Air Force received five pre-production versions of these cameras to evaluate and I had the opportunity to test one. I was impressed. The Air Force not. They held on to Contax and manual Zeiss. The main reason was that they did not trust the plastic body and the fact that it could not take a bulk film holder. So, in true Air Force problem-solving style I compiled my very first photographic SWOT analysis. The strengths were overwhelming – 1.8 frames per second from its internal auto-winder.

Powered film rewind. But most of all – the magic of autofocus. Threats – not many with the biggest one being availability at the time. But I had a contact with the supplier. As long as kept it “quiet”, I would manage to get at least one. Perhaps two. Weaknesses – none that I could foresee – apart from the price tag. And the fact that I had to get at least 2 bodies to ensure that film changeover can be done at the pace so as not to miss any of the action. Opportunities – limitless.

Time to invest! But I didn’t have the cash or credit facilities needed. So what does the 29-year-old do? Go to a father like the one I had. A veteran pilot from WWII. Successful civil engineer that maintained his flying licence until his mid 70’s. A master with figures and calculations. Convincing him for a loan turned out to be far easier than I initially thought. After all – my post-graduate thesis was nearly done I was soon to be a recipient of a MDP in business management. So nothing can go wrong.

12 September 1986. Only true photographers will know the excitement when tearing the plastic from the box. The two Pentax SFX bodies begged to be used. So did the Sigma 75-300 F4.5-5.6 lenses (I still have one – as reminder – my two were the first ones to be sold in South Africa at that time). Not to mention the white and red box with Metz 45 CT-1’s. And I bought two extra batteries. Electrifying! I had a month to learn the equipment. In true military style I took it step by step. I trained my wife to change film in record time. I played around with settings and flash synchronisation. Everything was ready for the big breakthrough.

Friday 24 October 1986. Day one. We arrived just after sunrise. The arena was huge. I quickly secured a spot for my tripod and the camera and flash set up went smoothly. After all – to this day – a Metz never failed me. Cameras charged with Fujichrome 400. Then the games began. With the Metz maxed out and the lens at 300mm with f8 nothing could go wrong. Roll after roll would be out of the cooler box. To be hammered through and back into the cooler box marked “exposed.” Both Pentax bodies performed flawlessly. So did the Metz Mecablitzes. By 4 o’clock that afternoon we were through 72 rolls of film. We were tired but elated. On the way home we stopped at a nice restaurant and when we left by 9 o’clock that evening we were ready to even consider adding to the family!

Saturday, 25 October 1986. This was the day. Serious competition. Tough judges. Tears of disappointment. Tears of joy. The day when champions were made. The day when dreams were shattered. I saw the day through my lens. Faultless. No failures. No hiccups. Simply perfect. Stunning emotions. Through the viewfinder. 92 rolls.

We left after the prize giving. I had contact with one of the large labs and had arranged with the managing director to have my film developed during Sunday so that everything will be ready for review and selection that Monday. After all – they would also rake in some handsome cash flow from this event.

Sunday, 26 October 1986. Just after 10 o’clock the morning. There was always a special feeling – a strange excitement – when one handed over rolls of slide film for development. The old hands would know what I’m talking about. That morning was different. Somehow I felt stressed knowing that the development cost would be twice my monthly salary. Something inside me stirred. Suddenly I thought about the distance from object that was close to 40 m. But then something inside me told me not to worry. Just believe. The managing director booked in the film and promised to have them ready mid-morning the next day.

Monday, 27 October 1986. I took the week off – in spite of the Air Force’s busy training schedule – because I had to manage getting the photographs printed and distributed. My wife left early that Monday morning to present a class to a group of executives. For some strange reason she was nervous. Unlike her. Her nervousness rubbed off on me in some strange fashion. I had this butterfly feeling. After I dropped our eldest daughter at the crèche and the youngest at my mother-in-law (in that regard I am very lucky to get along very well with my in-laws) I drove through the early morning rush hour to the lab. It was just after 8 o’clock when I walked into the lab. The lab assistant that usually greeted me enthusiastically and with her contagious smile gave me a shocked look and without saying a word turned round and disappeared to the managing director’s office. I instinctively knew something is wrong. Very, very wrong. My instincts did not disappoint when she came back and coldly asked me to follow her to his office. The managing director asked me to take a seat. He had a huge desk and behind him a massive lightbox. As I sat down I realised something serious is coming my way. But my life had many ups and downs by then. I could face everything. Or so I thought.

I was involved in a serious aviation accident in 1979. Simply put – it was so serious that my then girlfriend (now my wife) as well as my parents was called to my bedside to say their final goodbyes. Through the grace of God and prayer as well as extraordinary talented and dedicated medical staff I managed to survive. During my military career I was in 27 skirmishes and still have camouflage trousers with a bullet hole just above my left knee and with another bullet hole right where my right testicle should have been. I considered myself no stranger to fear.

But even to this day words cannot describe the devastation of my soul that morning when I was told that there were only 21 frames that could be rescued from all the 5904 frames taken.

The managing director of the lab was 60. Without me telling him; without me asking him; without me doing anything apart from changing colour and hyperventilating, he sensed my utter desperation. He stood up from behind his desk, walked over to my side. As I write this I can almost feel his right on my left shoulder. “Johnny, don’t worry. Learn from this.” He then proceeded to make me a strong espresso and we quickly pondered over the stings of hugely underexposed film. It was a mess. A total disaster.

Having recomposed myself – after all I was an experienced and battle hardened officer that had witnessed trauma and death on many occasions – I offered to make monthly payments to cover the development cost. “Don’t worry. We can sort that out later. The first thing you should do is to get your photography right. Then we can talk.”

To this day I never received any account for that disaster. In the years that followed prior to digital taking over I had many thousands of frames developed by his lab and always insisted to pay the full price. But somehow it never worked. I always received a “special price” of some sort. What a gentleman! What a gift!

With a box full of useless and blackened slide film I left the lab just after 12 o’clock on that dreaded 27th October 1986. Not only did I realise that I would have to find a way to pay for the development but I also have to repay the equipment loan. To add insult to injury I knew that I would lose every grain of credibility I had as a “professional” photographer. The only option I foresaw at that stage was to go back home, get into uniform, go to my unit, see my commanding officer and try to arrange for a quick operational tour as that would at least provide me with some much-needed danger pay. After that I would go to my promoter at the University and arrange for delayed submission of my thesis. Then I will tell my wife. She would be disappointed. Especially as the planned December holiday, the first one in three years, was now off the cards. On my way back home I even contemplated suicide. That is really how bad it was at that moment. I vowed never to pick up a camera again. I will sell the Pentaxes. The lenses. The flashes. Never mind the relationship with the supplier.

I left home just after 2 o’clock that afternoon. Plan was to go to my unit. But for some reason I decided I have to make a quick stop at the Air Force’s Central Photographic Establishment. CPE as was commonly known was the country’s most sophisticated and advanced photographic training and development facility. It is where I was trained in a wide variety of specialised photographic techniques. A place of learning and mentorship unique on earth. At the time boasting the most sophisticated equipment in spite of sanctions and embargoes. My mission was simple – I simply had to see my photographic mentor. I had to talk to someone that would understand. After all – my photographic confidence level was at an all-time low and I simply did not have the guts to pick up a camera again. Not for any private photograph.

Affectionately known as “Oubaas van Niekerk” (“Oubaas” meaning “old boss” in a respectful manner) he was regarded as the most knowledgeable. A straight-forward, no-nonsense person. But forever helpful. He was in his 70s and brought back from retirement to assist with the training and mentoring of pilots and intelligence officers. A specialist in false colour; infrared; lowlight photography as well as stereo and oblique techniques. A winner of several international photographic competitions and a very wise man. He listened attentively to my pathetic lamentations.

Contrary to what I expected he offered no sympathy. He had a brief look at some of the film strips and instead of showing some appreciation for my calamity he just smiled and shook his head. He made it clear that it is not the camera – as a matter of fact he actually liked the Pentax SFX – nor is it the lens or the flash. He didn’t ask me anything about speed, aperture or flash settings. He just looked at me and asked: “How many years?” I quickly responded: “Since 1979.” He nodded.

Then he stood up and walked over to his calendar hanging on the wall. He suddenly turned “official and formal.”

“Captain, I see you Saturday morning zero-six-thirty here at my office. Full blues with medals. I want to show you something.” Now for you that don’t know what this means in Air Force terms – it means full uniform with medals and not only the uniform with the medal ribbons. It is the dress usually used for parades and when welcoming VIPs and Heads of State.

I didn’t go back to my unit that day. I drove to the botanical garden and just sat there thinking about my life and how bizarre events can turn out. That evening I told my wife. I was expecting a controlled outburst. Another surprise. She understood. Wasn’t worried about the holiday being cancelled or the debt to be repaid. No blaming. No harsh words. Just loving understanding. As simple as that.

Saturday, 01 November 1986. I arrived ahead of schedule. From his office I could see that the red carpet is out at the Air Force Base arrival section and a full squadron of troops were getting ready for the welcoming ceremony. The Air Force band was also getting ready and security was super tight. On his desk was two Contax RTS II’s fitted with Zeiss glass and Metz 45 CT hammerheads. 250 shot data packs were fitted onto each body. Oubaas handed me a camera. I checked all the vitals. Everything set and perfect.

We had a quick coffee and made our way over to the VIP arrival area. It was a relatively short walk. The parade commander was getting everyone ready and lined up. The base officer commanding was quite surprised to see me donning a camera but Oubaas quickly assured him that I am under advanced training. I had no idea what was lying ahead apart from knowing that this is a VIP arrival. We stood approximately 10m from the edge of the red carpet.

The Falcon 50 of 21 VIP transport Squadron touched down just after 7:15. It taxied in and stopped with its door abeam the red carpet. The parade commander commanded the guard of honour to attention and the band readied itself. The door opened and slowly lowered. The parade commander shouted “present arms” and the band started the national anthem. At that very moment Oubaas told me: “Now let’s start. Just compose, focus and fire. Nothing else. Do what I do. I will do the talking.”

He briskly walked onto the red carpet right up to the aircraft staircase. I followed. Camera ready to fire. The very next moment the infamous PW Botha, then State President of South Africa, appeared in the doorway. PW, as he was known, looked down at us. I came to attention and saluted. PW smiled as he warmly greeted Oubaas. I immediately sensed they were old friends. He also greeted me with a rather surprised: “Good morning Captain.”

What followed was just absolutely bizarre.

For the next seven minutes or so Oubaas literally shoved this powerful man around as he wished. He asked for a stern military pose. He got it. He commanded PW to walk down the stairs very slowly and stop when told to do so. PW obliged. He was in the middle of the stairs. Posing. Re-posing. All on cue. I just kept composing and firing away. Almost in perfect sync with Oubaas.

And the band played. And the guard of honour stood with arms presented. In itself a tiring stance. Believe me. Been there. Done it.
Then one step lower. Put on a friendly face. Look up. Look down. Smile. Shoulders slightly back. Tilt the head right. Chin bit lower. Raise hand slowly. Almost every pose imaginable that would convey various facets of statesmanship and power. All on the middle step of that Falcon 50.

Then the First Lady appeared. She was visibly tired. But everything changed when she saw Oubaas. Greeted him like he was a saviour. And greeted me as well. But evidently surprised at this captain with the camera. Oubaas asked her to join PW on the stairs of the aircraft and as before commanded various poses. At times I just composed, focused and kept the shutter in. A Contax RTS II has a magic sound to it when auto winding. It was the F1 of cameras.

Now with a brass band playing, and the aircraft Auxiliary Power Unit running, Oubaas had to bellow out his requests. No soft talking here. But done with style. With passion.

By the time PW and his wife Elise were on the red carpet the national anthem was being played at least for the fourth time. PW stood to attention and took the national salute. And still Oubaas didn’t stop. As PW and Elise walked down the red carpet through the guard of honour we walked backwards on the red carpet. At one point in time Oubaas requested PW to stop and talk to some of the members of the guard of honour. PW obliged exactly as he was told. I just kept composing, focusing and firing mindful that I only had 250 frames. Even when entering the VIP car Oubaas called for another set of posing.

“Can I have them tomorrow?” was PW’s parting request.

“As always.” Oubaas replied confidently.

The procession left. We slowly walked back to the office. I was in sort of a trance. The experience was overwhelming in the sense that I never thought that a photographer could be so utterly demanding and powerful. And yet I was part of it. Not observing it. Participating in it.

Oubaas immediately went for the coffee percolator and started to brew us a cup of the best. He was also a coffee connoisseur.

I was instructed to go to the darkroom and load the film into the automated developer. “PW expects it in his office by tonight. I know” he chuckled.

Instinctively I took my camera first. Unloaded and the film was quickly in process. Then I took the camera Oubaas used. To my utter shock and horror I discovered that there was no film in it. I stormed out of the darkroom.

I tried to say something but the words simply failed to form. I was like a fish out of the water gasping for air. He turned around and laughed like I’ve never seen him laugh before. He afterwards told me that my rather darkish brown tan turned white, then grey, then had a purple tinge and then back to white again.

Once recomposed I asked him why he did this to me. He simply replied: “Because I taught you. And today was my final lesson. The most important one. A one word lesson. Attitude.”

That last day of October 1986 forever changed my life. From Oubaas I learnt what attitude is and what attitude is not.

Firstly, I realised that it is not about the camera or the photographer. It’s all about the people being photographed. Nothing more. Nothing less. People want to be stars in their own photographs. The centre of attention. They want the best reflection. The want best pose. But to get that one must have the attitude to make it happen. Not only must one command the camera but one must take charge of the situation. But not so much that posing becomes artificial. Leave room for individuality. But most important of all – take charge in a manner that conveys mutual respect and professionalism.

Secondly, throughout that valuable lesson that day Oubaas never belittled who was then the most powerful man in Africa. He never made anyone cringe. Quite the opposite. He created an atmosphere of enjoyment and relaxation. To do that on the red carpet with a guard of honour takes some skill. And guts. And timing.

Thirdly, his tone of voice conveyed assertiveness. He knew what he wanted and had the ability to orchestrate people to do what was required to get a perfect picture, every time. People like PW and his wife knew that. They respected and visibly appreciated that. There is a very fine line between assertiveness and aggressiveness. It is something one needs to learn to manage. It’s a delicate balance.

Fourthly, I learnt to work within the technical limitations of the lens and the flash. This means getting close. “Equipment attitude means leaving room to concentrate on focus and composition.” Wise words from a wise man. Never again would I stand at the back of the hall. I will be the guy right up front and when having the right attitude people will not see me as intrusive. Bottom line – I will not allow myself to run out of light.

Lastly. Something I would never forget. After each flash he would say: “Thank you” or something like “perfect” or “great”. Appreciative words. And then almost in the same breath gave his next assertive command. It takes away tension. It shows appreciation. It is the license to ask for more. I’ve tested it throughout the world. Without any exception – it works.

How were my photographs that day? I fired 230 frames. Not a single one rejected by Oubaas. He selected three photographs that were enlarged, framed and sent to the presidency. I never had the opportunity to visit or meet PW again. Or to work with Oubaas again. It was truly to be my last lesson.

Soon afterwards I was transferred as officer commanding to another far-away unit. I paid Oubaas a last visit. To say good-bye and to pick up a Contax RTS II and some Zeiss glass. He retired to a farm next to the Vaal River. We lost contact.

But his legacy will remain. Forever. In one word.

Attitude.