Years ago, I worked in a small real-estate office. One of the agents got a new listing, so she asked me to drop in and take photos.
As I dropped in, my jaw dropped. Random junk sat atop every conceivable surface. It looked as if a tornado had struck a knickknack shop.
There were dog toys on the couch, antique dishes on the coffee table, torn-open mail on the kitchen counter. If House Hunters and Hoarders got drunk and made a baby, this house would be it.
I would have wiped my feet on the mat, but I didn’t want to dirty my shoes.
However, I was there to take photos, so take photos I did. Being the professional I am, I used creative angles to portray the garbage as artistically as possible. Natural sunlight flowed through the open curtains, adding a heavenly glow to the pristine piles of rubbish.
We posted the photos and listed the home. A few days later, the homeowner called.
“Can you tell me who took the photos of my house?” he asked.
I told him that the creative genius in question was me.
“OK,” he said, “then riddle me this: Would it have occurred to you not to take photos of all the clutter?”
Now here’s my problem: I have a smart-aleck switch. When it’s switched on, I start spewing a stream of passive-aggressive prattle that can’t be stopped. Once I get going, I’m not able to turn the switch off, even if I try. I just have to keep going until I run out of steam.
It’s sort of like Planes Trains and Automobiles, when Steve Martin accuses John Candy of being a Chatty Cathy doll who pulls his own string — except the reverse. I have a switch over which I have no control. Only other people can flick it on for me.
And this homeowner, unfortunately, had succeeded in flicking my switch.
“Well,” I said, “riddle me this: Would it have occurred to you to clean your house when you know full well a photographer’s coming?”
“You see,” I continued, “a photographer’s palette is the whimsical world he frames with his lens. While a painter suggests reality with brushstrokes and splatters, a photographer captures the essence of a moment and coaxes it to its fullest expression. The environment in which he composes his masterpieces sets the mood for the photos that emerge. So when he finds himself in a repulsive midst of messiness and disarray, his thoughts, emotions, and photos reflect the untidy shambles of his surroundings. What develops – quite literally – are photographic representations of the egregious eyesore, complete with all the filth and clutter that litter the landscape.”
“Are you finished?” the man asked.
“Not quite,” I said. “The horrific conditions of your abysmal abode not only undermined my artistic endeavors, but they endangered my life, as well. When I stepped backward to frame a shot of the dining room, I tripped on what I assume was a poodle — or maybe an overgrown rat. Either way, it wasn’t moving, so I imagine it had sucked its last breath as it desperately clawed through the clutter, seeking the freedom it could never find in the midst of the suffocating chaos.”
A heavy sigh came from the phone. “Is that all?”
“Your trashcan was also overflowing and left sitting in the middle of the kitchen,” I added. “I would have moved it, but I couldn’t swat my way through the thick swarm of flies. They pushed me backward and pinned me to the wall. I’m sure I could have taken them individually, but as a team, they proved to be an unstoppable force.”
“OK — I believe you’ve made your point,” the man said. “Are we done now?”
“I think so,” I said. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Good. If I clean up the clutter, could you come back to retake the photos?”
“Of course,” I said. “I live for my art. I exist to achieve excellence. I cherish the creative satisfaction that comes from replicating the beauty of nature. Why, my camera –”
The phone clicked in my ear.
“Hmm.” I hung up the phone. “Well, not everyone appreciates my creative genius.”