You know they have all these new things now. Digital camera, photoshop and a hundred clones and pieces of it, schools out the wazoo even, and Forums to discuss photography and yet we still advise younger photographers to find a working pro to observe. When I started in 1969, there was a photographer in town who was pretty old by then. He was at least seventy and still working. Photographers did that back then. Finding a kid like me was their retirement plan. His problem was that he needed help with the grunt work. He also didn't want to pay for it. He called the local technical school and spoke with an instructon. The instructor was mine. Her name was Barbara and we were friends as well as teacher student. I got the first chance at the job. I had a 'real' job at the time so I jumped all over it. It was to carry his bags and load his cameras on location jobs. He ran his studio during the week but did weddings and company picnic kind of things on the weekend. I would have loved to take over his studio, but he made it plain from the start it wasn't going to happen. What I didn't realize at the time was how valuable those few months were to me. Flint taught me how to learn and that's a fact. Barbara was teaching me the basics and Flint was teaching me how to learn the practical things that make a photographer work. Barbara had me studying classical composition while Flynt taught me to look at photography as a craft, not an art. I was a ball of confusion for a long time till I found my place in it all. What that place is isn't up for debate as flynt was fond of saying. "It is what it is, no more no less." The point is that I was damn lucky and hate that everyone doesn't have that kind of experience. I used to have a copy of Edward Weston's day books. They were really a journal of sorts. In it there is this story about weston teaching a young photographer toward the end of his life. They were in a deserted mining town rumaging through the old buildings. Weston walked into a deserted cabin, the student was standing there looking lost. "There's a picture here somewhere," she said. "I just don't see it." Weston walked over picked up a single ragged, discarded boot and hung it from a nail. That discription of a boot on a nail was enough, I didn't even need to see it to know what it was. It's the kind of thing I took to heart. Somethings are almost a part of genetic memory. You don't need to go on forever about them. In the words of Flynt "They just are what they are, no more no less." Feel free to ignore this since it isn't part of the mainsteam thinking these days. Just remembrances of an old man who needs to go shoot a pin hole or something.