Still Life

Needing some inspiration for a project that I'm working on for a friend.
I needed to step away tonight and do something completely different.

Post-Production Supervisor #1

Lately, I’ve wanted to write about my job as a Post-Production Supervisor, mainly because it’s a rather unique position and I get a lot of questions about what I do. I also thought that I’d record my notes here for anyone else out there who might be struggling with some of the same issues as a PPS. So I hope that this is of some bit of interest or help to you.

Here’s a brief summery of what I do as the Post-Production Supervisor for Footnote:

In short, once the production team has completed shooting, my team takes over and begins to work with the footage to cut it into the show that you finally see on the air every month.

My role is to ask a lot of questions and do a lot of running around. When you’re working with creative people and tight deadlines there is a constant need to clarify what the director(s), in this case Jon and Alicia, want the show to look like, and then effectively communicating that to everyone on the team. There’s nothing worse then putting in three or four days on a segment only to find out that we were supposed to take it a different direction.

The other main aspect of my job is to always make sure that everyone has something to do. That is a full time job in and of itself and one I often fail at. When you have anywhere from 7 to 11 workers, depending on the day, working on an assembly line production schedule, everyone must be in sync. If someone along the line, from an editor to the motion graphics guy to the sound mixer to the colorist, needs an extra day to finish their job, this sends me scrambling to adjust the timeline and still make it to the deadline on time. 

Being a Post-Production Supervisor is like an endurance contest. So much of what I do is dependent on everyone, including the computers, completing their work on time. It stretches my patience daily. The long hours of waiting for my team to finish their latest edit, while I pace the halls trying not to pester them. The exorbitant upload and download times transferring files to my out-source freelancers. And then the Achilles heel of the production world… RENDERING the final file. Oh the agony, the pain, the horror! This is why I keep a collection of bad sci-fi in my office.

Hopefully that gives you a general idea of my day-to-day job. Luckily we haven’t crashed the train yet. If you’d like to see examples of our work, check out the Footnote website at fntv.com.

Stay tuned for next week. The topic: work flows.  (Ooooooohh, exciting.)

Christmas Bells

Merry Christmas from Lincoln, Nebraska!

Though I have much to write about our move out here, I thought I would take this opportunity to write to you about what God has laid upon my heart over the last week or so.

I recently read the story behind the Christmas hymn “I heard the Bells on Christmas Day”, written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and it is quickly becoming one of my favorite hymns.  This past week I have found myself singing this song to myself often throughout the day.

On Christmas morning 1864, Longfellow awoke like many other Americans, exhausted and emotionally worn from four unrelenting years of civil war. Caring for his dying son, who had been wounded in battle, Longfellow found little comfort in the news of the re-election of Abraham Lincoln and the recent advances of the Union army. 

This would also be the fourth Christmas since his wife’s tragic death, and his grief over her loss had turned to depression. Life for Longfellow was anything but ideal that day as he observed Christ’s birth.

However, life is never really ideal, is it? When Christ came to this Earth it was anything but ideal circumstances. In our 21^st century perceptive, it’s hard to imagine what Joseph and Mary went through; the fear and pain, not to mention the smells. But somehow between cattle lowing and a makeshift crib, God had come to us in his own pre-ordained way.    

For some reason the Lord likes to work in those non-ideal moments in life. Like children opening gifts on Christmas morning, we always seem to be in need of more; more food, more money, more time.  We aren’t satisfied with our unfilled desires, and our patience wears quickly as we wait upon our Heavenly Father to provide.

And somehow we think we can do it all alone. We can be our own provider, or we can right all the injustices of this world through our own passion and will. But that isn’t our job. And like Longfellow, we despair and are overwhelmed by this sin-rot world.

As I reflect on these words, I cannot seem to restrain the tears that well in my eyes as I sing the last two verses. Like the Psalmist, Longfellow is moved from despair to joy as he rests in the fact that even in a world of trouble, God is still on the throne.

– Merry Christmas

“Christmas Bells”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

December 25^th 1864

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on Earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on Earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime

A chant sublime

Of peace on Earth, good-will to men!

Then from each thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on Earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent

And make forlorn

The households born

Of peace on Earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

“There is no peace on earth,” I said;

“For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on Earth, good-will to men!”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead;

nor doth he sleep!

The wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on Earth, good-will to men!”

Redeeming Seema

Hey everyone,

I want you to know about Charasia's latest campaign 'Redeeming Seema.' They are using the film I made for them 'The Story of Seema' to promote what it is that they do. Feel free to check it out. Below is a the copy of the brochure. Check it out and let you friends know http://www.causes.com/causes/8083

Life on the Vine: Part III

“Sir, can I talk to you for a minute?” The firm voice of the police officer, who had just pulled up next to me, told me that he was serious. “What are you taking pictures of?” The well over six-foot officer stepped out of his black and white.

I’ve always believed that the best way to get to know an area is to take a stroll and get lost in the streets. So with a beautiful Sunday afternoon at hand, I had given in to a nagging need to get out of the house and wonder around. With my trusty camera at my side I couldn’t have asked for more perfect day.

“Um, houses, flowers…” I answered nervously. “Why?”

“We got a call from a few concerned parents about some guy taking pictures of their kids.”  His towering figure in the bright sunlight was accented only by my realization that another police car was pulling up behind us.

“Would you like to see what I’m taking pictures of?” I quickly offered. I began flipping through the images that I took throughout the afternoon, fully knowing that I had not been taking pictures of children and that this had to be some grave misunderstanding. “Oh don’t look at this one, this isn’t the best example of my work.” I chimed in, half being an artist that didn’t want my unedited work looked at, the other trying to put on a little charm.

When we got to the pictures of the sunflowers, officer Jim seemed to respond positively.  Something in his response told me that this is where the misunderstanding took place.  Apparently some of the little girls that live in my neighborhood saw me taking pictures of the sunflowers and thought I was trying to “hide behind the flowers” in order to take pictures of them.

            It was rather embarrassing, and not exactly how I was hoping to be introduced to the friendly people in my town. But everything was cleared up. I even finished my walk and took a lot of great pictures.

            Later, on my way back home, I walked past the ever-present gaggle of young girls in my neighborhood.  Apparently I had been the subject of much debate. “Guys! He’s back!” I heard one girl’s loud whisper. Peering from behind the bushes, they watched me as I walked into my backyard to be greeted by my wife.  “I told you he lives there!” said another voice.

            Thankfully, it was only a misunderstanding.  Besides the few minutes of meeting the police, getting a friendly background check, and momentarily scaring the neighborhood into thinking that the new guy was a creep, it wasn’t a bad day.

            It actually worked out in the end - I did meet one of the neighbors, a young father named Will.  He came up to my back porch the next night with his son to say hello, and to offer his apology for what went down the evening before. Will seems like a nice guy - his poor son is the only boy in the neighborhood and that night the girls were having a club with a “no boys allowed” policy.

            So from now on, when I get the itch to wander in my new town, I might consider calling in first to let the police know I’m on the loose.  I’m just glad to report that this letter is not written in place of my one phone call.   

Peter-John Campbell

P.S. Here are a few pictures for you to enjoy.

The Old Gray House, Buxton N.C.

“This is a paper nautilus. It’s only called a nautilus – a real nautilus shell has chambers.” It was the closest moment I’ve had to feeling like a five year old since that time I met an astronaut a few years back. I hung in the doorway of the tiny room as the old gray haired man continued the grand tour. I was in the third of four “shell shacks” on the property - this one a virtual museum dedicated to rare and unusual seashells. Dewy Parr, a grandfatherly man with the heart of a teacher, was in his element as he taught his current class; a group of tourists that hung on his every word, myself included. “An argonauta (a type of octopus) will come to the surface of the water and lay it’s eggs in here and then sit on top of it until they hatch. The shells are so frail that it’s extremely rare find one in perfect condition.” He lifted the glass box that sheltered the egg case and gingerly held it in his hands. “The Greeks named the animal after the Argonauts. When they saw the mother octopus sailing on top of one of these shells they associated her with their mythical ship the Argo. This is how the name Argonauta came into being.”

Tucked beneath the mossy oak trees and seashell-lined walking paths, Dewy and his wife Mary have developed one of the most unique places on the map I have ever seen. My wife Ellie and I were originally only going to stop in for a few minutes after spotting the weathered wood sign pointing back a side street off of Route 12. What we quickly realized is that someone could easily spend the better part of the day here. How do you describe a place that has a shop with the widest selection of seashells you have ever seen, a house full of vintage souvenirs, a museum dedicated to the history of Hatteras Island, and a self-guided tour featuring op/ed pieces on the value of feral cats? (Amongst other things.) Welcome to The Old Gray House Gift Shop in Buxton N.C.

“Over there I have the worlds largest conch shell. We’re not even allow to bring those into the U.S. anymore.” Dewy moved on the next stop on the tour. If first impressions mean anything, then I was hooked.

When I first arrived I took a walk around “The Path,” a garden that Dewy keeps for travelers to find a little rest. If you take a few minutes to read the articles posted every so often you’ll discover the wit and wisdom of Dewy Parr, a walking treasure trove of knowledge on many subjects, including the history of the island and it’s people, and one piece that especially caught my eye that discussed the benefits of feral cats:

What is the solution to the feral cat problem?
Studies have proven that trap-neuter-release is the single most successful method of stabilizing and maintaining healthy feral cats colonies with the least possible cost to local governments and residents, whiles providing the best life for the animals themselves…

Lost in an acre of land, convinced that I’d stumble into Narnia around the next corner, I was smiling, relaxed and truly enjoying myself for the first time in a long time. I think this is part of Dewy and Mary’s dream. The Old Gray House isn’t just a store - it’s a place to learn and catch up with the part of yourself that you lost a while ago.

Realizing that I had lost my wife, I thought I should go looking for her and find out how much this little excursion was going to cost me. She was inside, wide-eyed in her own dreamers paradise, browsing one of the many rooms filled with vintage nick-knacks, art, and other island souvenirs. Ellie held a box of vintage pushpins that looked like bees and she was eyeing the necklaces. “Do you like the cameo or the locket better?”

While Ellie was debating over her purchases, I struck up a conversation with Dewy’s wife Mary who was sitting behind the counter. Mary, a woman with her own interesting stories to tell, was born and raised in West Virginia. She worked as an accountant at Marshall University until she retired. “Well, Dewy grew up here on the Banks but he moved up to Huntington. Dewy was a fifth grade teacher.” (Which suddenly explained a lot.) She went on to tell me about their life in the Ohio Valley, and how moving back to the Banks was something they had always wanted to do. “So after we retired we moved back out here, and converted his Grandparents old house into the store.” They have been at it now for about 10 years. Incidentally, their 53rd wedding anniversary was a few weeks back.

After an hour or so, Ellie and I decided it was time for us to leave, though I could have stayed all day. We made our final purchases, which wound up being about $7.50 for our bag full of stuff. “And you thought you were going to be spending real money today, didn’t you?” Mary chuckled as she handed me my change.

My recommendation? If you are looking for seashells, this is the store to buy them. You will find the largest variety of seashells you have ever seen at the best prices on the island. But not only that, you will learn about the species, history and the significance of the shells you find.

You can find The Old Gray House off of Route 12 in Buxton. Turn onto Light Plant Road, across from Connors Supermarket. It’s the first house past the Pines Motel - you can’t miss it.
Learn more at http://www.outerbanksshells.com/

The Hooper Brothers of Salvo

This week I am on vacation with my family in one of my favorite places in the world, the Outer Banks North Carolina. So I thought I would test my photojournalism skills a little and give you a small exposé of my wanderings.

Anyone who knows me knows that it’s rare for me to meet a stranger. Wherever I go, I love meeting the locals and finding out what life is like on a day-to-day basis.

Yesterday, as Ellie and I were driving down to Buxton to pick up a mess of “apple uglies” for the gang (I’ll write about that later), something caught my eye. In all my years of coming down to the Banks I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before - the old Salvo N.C. Post Office.

So today while we were out, I just had to stop - and boy were we in for a treat. Stepping out of my car I was greeted by one of the friendliest men I’ve ever met, Bill Hooper. A spry, talkative man of 79, Bill grew up in the banks just “right across the road there, where that bench is” he said pointing. “Used to be a two story house where my brother and I grew up.” At this point, Bill’s older brother Ed chimed in, “We moved across the street here on August the 12^th and on August the 14^th I turned 14.” Parenthetically Bill told me, “We’re the last surviving members of our immediate family.”

Ignoring my mild protests, Bill called for Ed soon after we arrived, saying “I don’t have the key on me but if you want to see the inside I’ll go get my brother - he was the postmaster.” Ed, who is now in his 80’s, lives with Bill in their family home just a few yards behind the smallest Post Office I have ever seen. “It tied for first place,” the Hooper brothers told me proudly. “There’s one down in Ochopee [FL] that’s about the same size. They have a smaller perimeter but the work space inside here is a little smaller.”

“Wait ‘till I’m in my position!” Ed hollered at me as I snapped a few shots of him in front of the building. “I sit up on the railing.” Ed, obviously an old pro at posing for pictures, talked to me about his old post. Built in 1910 the building is only about 8x13 feet, with two rooms on the inside. “We use it now for storage. You know, everyone needs a place to put things and when you have empty space…” Bill said laughing. Pulling out a handful of old skeleton keys, Ed singled out the one modern looking key on the ring (a little disappointing) and popped the door open to the old post office. “This door comes from an old ship,” he told me, patting it with the palm of his hand.

Bill wasn’t kidding when he said he used the old place to store all his things, but standing amidst the piles of old chairs, books, and boxes, including one filled with the old metal doors that were used for the post office boxes, my wife and I quickly got the idea of how it used to run. The room is split in half by a wall with a door in it. Ed proudly took his position in the doorway. “I use to sit right here and this is where I worked.” Smaller then most people’s closets, this little building served the community of Salvo from 1910 until it was retired in 1992.

“I think this fall when it gets a little cooler, I’m going to replace the roof and give it a paint job.” Bill told me as we walked back to my car. “If y‘all are ever around again stop by and we’ll sit and have a cup of coffee, or maybe iced tea.” He cocked his hand up to his mouth as if he was going to tell me a secret. “We don’t drink anything stronger than coffee here and if it’s hot like today, it’ll probably be sweet tea,” he said smiling.

So if you’re ever on highway 12, driving south through the Outer Banks, stop in at the old post office in Salvo and say “hello” to the Hooper bothers. You’ll be glad you did.