Burn Out

To this day I'm not sure what pushed me over the edge - the work environment, tensions at home, frustrations with my stalled art career, or if it was simply all those pictures. I do know that a six-pack of Busch beer can be had for as low as $2.89 if you know where to shop.

About a year into the job I started drinking a couple of nights a week. First it was just a little after work to relax, to wind down after eight hours of hustling prints; a few beers taste good after a long night on your feet. But before long it was every night. Then, and it really had a feeling of inevitability to it, I began drinking on the job - first an hour before work ended, then two, three, four until eventually I was drinking through out the course of a whole shift. Of course, the more I drank, the less work I got done. The bosses knew something was up, but I'd always get the rush jobs out, the blow-ups were always beautiful, so they never pushed anything. Even in my sorriest state, I still made them money.

I wasn't the only one that imploded either; it happened quite a lot at A-1. I remember one person began reading books in the darkroom. Each day, over a month, she produced less and less and read more and more, until finally she wasn't working at all. Another person, after months of good work, began making so many mistakes we eventually had to conclude she'd just lost it. And another, upon rejecting a raise he deemed to low, told the management that gravediggers get paid more. Of course they were all fired. I remember two other guys too - they quit while I was there, moved as far away as they could and began entirely new careers.

Working around these images never seemed to bother me. I never felt sad or got queasy, I never had problems sleeping. Sometimes I didn't even look that closely at the content. The important thing was the size, color, exposure, and focus - did I have everything right, was it the best print I could produce? No one else really said much either, just an occasional wincing exclamation: fucking shit, christ, my god, thats gotta suck. Everyone agreed seeing all these pictures must be bad for one's mental health, but no one knew how. No one had nightmares.

We all complained about the work though. Making that many prints, day after day, wears a person down. Eventually the monotony of the process made me into such a zombie that I actually began listening to “new country” radio stations in a reckless attempt at variety. And of course there was all the usual work stuff that brings down morale, that makes what should just be a job into a hassle: no one was paid enough money, benefits were cut, bonuses stopped, holidays not given or paid. The bosses were, among other things, cheap bastards. On the worst days, caving into all the frustrations, I wanted to jab an ice pick deep into the center of my forehead, and twist. Photography, A-1 style, just wasn't much fun.

So in December 2000 I finally put in my notice. Those last few months, when working the night shift, I wasn't even in the lab half the time. Clocked in sure, but actually across the street drinking in the bar with the day shift. I don't even remember the last day I worked at A-1 Photo Services, and I don't care to try. Afterwards, walking away, I spent the next two months living in a basement studio in Portland, Oregon with my camera, trying to figure out if there was anything left to like about photography.