The Final Frame - Ogden Chesnutt

There was surprisingly little hesitation when Eli said, ‘I do.’ In fact, the only hesitation in the room was from the photographer. I could hear him quietly grunting in frustration behind me.

It was Eli’s long-awaited wedding, and when I arrived at the church I found I’d been relegated to the back, seated next to deviant uncles, annoying work colleagues and the extremely elderly.

‘I want you back here in case the photographer has any questions,’ he tried to reason with me.

‘What kind of questions?’ I said sceptically.

‘Oh, just… anything.’ The photographer wore a tuxedo T-shirt and a fedora with a Canon T90 slung around his neck, and inspired about as much confidence as an automated phone helpline. I looked at Eli confused.

‘Well, I wanted you, but you cancelled on me,’ he said.

‘I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining your day,’ I reasoned.

‘Well, I think you can rest easy, then,’ Eli said.

The ceremony proceeded flawlessly, and even Eli was on top form. He mingled like a politician, and when the moment came he delivered quite moving vows. All the while behind me I heard the snap of the T90’s shutter.

It was during the bride’s vows that things got hairy. I could hear anxious mutterings behind me, and when I picked up a couple of quiet swear words, I turned around. ‘Everything all right?’ I whispered.

‘Huh? Oh. No,’ he said. The photographer lowered his shades. ‘I photograph bands, not weddings. I’m used to being up front. I can’t see anything through these heads!’

‘You could tell everyone to kneel on the floor,’ I suggested. His eyes got wide.

‘I can do that?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You needed to be on the end of the aisle. Don’t worry; get a couple of nice portraits outside, and then concentrate on the reception.’ He looked at me blankly while he processed what I said, then nodded thanks.

The reception was in the upstairs of a lodge that now served as a park administrative building, which sounds about as exciting as a documentary on eczema, but was surprisingly nice. And dark. I watched the young photographer as he struggled with long exposures and no flashgun, but as it wasn’t my problem I resumed drinking.

It was probably after my third glass of red wine and while dancing The Safety Dance that I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Eli. He looked desperate. ‘Ogden, my photographer took off. He said he didn’t have the right equipment. Can you shoot the rest of the wedding – please?’ I opened my mouth to argue, but seeing him so concerned, I nodded yes without considering how woozy I felt. He pressed his compact system camera into my hands, and it occurred to me it was like giving a camera to Muhammad Ali. Eli’s new wife had come over and both expressed their thanks. Yet Eli lingered, concerned. ‘There’s no pressure,’ he said. And, strangely, there wasn’t.

I’d avoided his request to photograph his wedding because I didn’t want to let anyone down, and suddenly that trepidation had gone. Maybe it was the wine giving me confidence, but I don’t think so. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I told him. ‘Go enjoy yourself.’

And so I left the dance floor and went on the prowl. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about photography it’s that we put too much emphasis on sharpness and technical proficiency. I think pictures that are trying to be sharp, like fashion shots or big landscapes, are in obvious error when they fall short of that benchmark. When the focus is on the nostrils or the rock in the foreground is soft, we all know the photographer was trying for something else, particularly when the picture is oversharpened. But those spontaneous shots and unguarded moments are more poignant when they’re not sharp.

I had the time of my life as a photographer that night shadowing revellers on the dance floor. I captured deviant uncles with wandering hands, bored children, conferences of women and the DJ checking his watch. I filled Eli’s memory card with true moments from the most special night of their lives.

Near the end of the evening Eli tracked me down and we scanned through my images. We laughed and howled and I really felt like I’d done well. Our favourite image was my shot of his uncle dancing with his wife’s mother, dropping his hand into off-limit regions.

‘Typical Uncle Dave,’ he said.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Why was I stuck at the back with Dave?’

‘My wife doesn’t like you. But don’t worry, she listens to me now,’ he said. And I took his picture as his new bride crossed her arms behind him.