When my housemates, Sue and Alex, decided to get married at dawn on Balmoral Beach, they asked me to be the photographer. It was my first wedding gig—and, as it turned out, my last.
The conditions were a photographer's dream and a technical nightmare: rising sun, Sydney harbor mist, and a touch of atmospheric smoke. I spent the next day meticulously editing, thrilled with the results. The light was ethereal; the couple looked iconic.
Sue was buzzing with anticipation. When I finally sent her the link, she vanished into her room to savor them.
Then came the silence.
Ten minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. My "inner critic" went from a whisper to a scream. She hates them. The focus is off. I’ve ruined their memories.
Finally, I plucked up the courage to knock. I found Sue looking absolutely miserable.
"Sue," I stammered, "are the photos okay?"
"Oh, Graeme," she wailed, "I look so fat in these!"
I stared at her for a beat. "Sue... you’re eight months pregnant."
Apparently, even "golden hour" magic has its limits. I hung up my camera lens that day and haven't shot a wedding since.
