In the small town of El Segundo where I live, this old metal quonset hut is almost an icon. When I talk to locals about my upcoming night shot, they inevitably comment, "Oh yeah! I know that old shed. Right across from the oil factory?"

Built in the early '40s during the height of World War II, it is our last and best surviving example of what was originally intended as a temporary structure. I had been driving past this hut every week for the last fifteen years, the last two months of which I had been contemplating an art shot. Finally, it seemed the time to stop, take a closer look, maybe talk to the owner about access for a night shot. Pulling into the lot next door and approaching this great old structure on foot for the very first time, I thought she appeared even better (from a photographer's perspective) than I had imagined, totally covered in rust, with numerous deep dents and gauges in the corrugated skin, all standard windows and doors blanked out. On top of all this, I noticed a classic old 1946 Ford pickup resting sedately, almost wedged deep up toward the end of this short alley. With a shredded right rear rubber tire and obligatory faded matte red paint (obviously this pickup hadn't run under its own power for probably two decades now), it was a perfect match, visually and historically, to the hut. Except for the extremely confined environment of this alley (shooting this scene would be difficult, as I could only back up about eight feet from the truck's front bumper), I was sure it could be a beautiful scene. All that was left to do now was talk to the owner, get permission to take over his business for half a day and night, then rearrange all his equipment, truck and tools into a nice little composition. That's not asking too much.

Approaching the open rolled-up door of their main building, I was first struck by the intensity of loud rock music at a level almost deafening. It took me a few seconds to adjust. Spying a few dudes. working along the room's perimeter wall, adding to this cacophony by grinding metal and hammering a quarter-inch-thick steel plate with massive steel mallets, for a half second the phrase "whistle while you work" came to mind. As they stopped momentarily from their hard, loud, very physical labor to gaze in my direction, I found myself half talking, half shouting, "Where's the boss?"

Just as the laws of physics dictate the movement of a compass needle, so too did all hands point in unison across the room, converging on Brandon Chrisman, a young man of about 30 years, hunched over the left rear wheel assembly of what looked like some sort of off-world ATV. (It is sobering to me at 50 that I consider a guy of 30 years to be a young man.) Aware that first impressions are critically important, and conscious that "casual" was the order of the day, I did my best to be as laid back as was possible for a guy like myself. Having been self-employed all my adult life, and having presented portfolios to prospective clients more times than I can count, I thought a few basic self-taught rules of salesmanship did apply to this situation.

When approaching somebody "hat in hand," so to speak (I did want to borrow his whole shop, truck, tools and some employees, after all), you don't start off by asking them for favors. You don't start by asking them to turn up the air conditioning, have something to drink, close the door, or, in this case, turn down the music so I can talk to them about borrowing their whole shop for eight hours. Unlike the Terminator when informing an outlaw biker in a dingy biker bar that he "needs your clothes, your boots and your bike," the final call was not mine to make.

I approached Brandon and we shook hands. I introduced myself and we spoke for a minute or so. I mentioned photography and his quonset hut, etc. Even though I literally could not hear a word he said, he seemed at least not closed off to the idea of shooting. With a casual and polite wave of his hand, he spoke the barely audible phrase "Yeah, sure! Have a look around." I started poking about in earnest.

Luckily, a few minutes later we continued our conversation out in the much quieter alleyway between the two buildings. I explained the concept of what could be a great photograph by utilizing the hut, the pickup truck, and any other automotive parts and tools he had on hand. Brandon, owner of Link Motor Sport, seemed (I think) inclined to go for it. To be fair, I wanted to make sure he fully comprehended what this project would entail. For myself it was a big commitment, but it's my photograph, that's my reward. "For you," I explained only half jokingly, "it is an invasive and protracted process, not as bad as colonoscopy, but not too far from it!" We had a little laugh. Brandon decided to reserve final judgment pending review of several previous night art images I said I would email tonight.

Calling back to Link Motor Sport three days later, inquiring as to whether Brandon had had a chance to review the email samples I had sent earlier, I was informed that, Yes! They have seen them. The whole shop loves the shots, and, yes, we can go forward with the photo shoot. Great!

Arriving at 2:00 P.M. on the date and time of our agreed-upon photo shoot, I could see Brandon and a couple of his employees hunched over and into the engine compartment of this classic car. They had clearly spent the entire first half of the day resuscitating the old '46 Ford. The right rear tire had been totally replaced, the engine was showing the first few signs of what had been a long dormant life. Running roughly and intermittently but running nonetheless, it would make the process of moving her and composition much easier. I stayed only long enough to drop off a second pickup, a '56 Chevy I had borrowed from yet another total stranger in town (residents of El Segundo are a trusting group of people).

Upon my return shortly thereafter with all my cameras and equipment, the hardest part of the night's shooting began, physically manhandling all this heavy, dirty stuff into a nice composition. All of us pitched in to create a scene that would fit within the very tight confines of this narrow alley, all the while trying to keep the quonset hut filling at lest half a frame, moving the pickup literally ten times, sometimes just inches forward or backward again.

Over time, the scene came together thanks to the Herculean patience of all involved. At one point, while standing bent over the camera and requesting that "you guys" move both 400-pound axle sets just eight inches forward, I was greeted with a unison chorus of, "Oh Jees! You gotta be kidding!" Taking the defensive, I explained that, "We're not just throwing shit into a dumpster, we're composing art!" Laughing again in unison, they informed me, "We're just busting your balls, relax." I must admit that sometimes during these shoots I temporarily misplace my sense of humor. The whole three-hour process of propping this set was hard, dirty and wonderfully fun. After getting my butt kicked during the very challenging airship night shoot, it was a joy to have the time and resources to really "tweak" this much smaller environment.

With the heavy movement of props mostly completed, and this being Friday afternoon, most of Brandon's crew was sucking back a well-deserved light beer. Still not quite satisfied myself with the propping of our set, I continued rummaging through the shop for ever more pieces of equipment that would add that sense of authenticity to the whole scene. Just then Brian, my good friend and unofficial assistant for many of these shots, commented, "If you really want to add realism, include a six-pack of beer on the running board." As it so happened, Brandon's shop came equipped with a twelve-pack of Coors Lite in the fridge. It was the perfect final touch.

As evening approached, several people came and went, sisters, friends, girlfriends, possible future parents-in-law and Brandon's dad (his mom couldn't make it due to an out-of-town commitment). Everybody was relaxed, happy and looking forward to the evening's upcoming "show." Having set up a small video monitor that displays what the camera captures, I explained to the group how it would work. "It's fun to watch several of the images on the monitor as they're created. In a few days from now, when you see the final recomposited photograph, you'll think it's kind of a hoot. You'll be able to recognize most individual pieces from tonight's shooting session."

As he was almost the only guy there who hadn't had a couple beers, I asked Brandon's dad, Tim, to help with operating the camera. He said yes. One final instruction to everybody that under no circumstances was anybody to kick or touch the tripod, and away we went.

Shooting this wonderfully unique scene on this beautifully calm night, all the while surrounded by these gracious people who just an hour ago had been strangers to me, being so easily accepted into their midst, I soon felt in the company of old friends.
Isn't life great? Could it get any better?

During the next two hours' shooting session, when everything is working perfectly. Where I'm at that place in my head I love to visit, a sort of a zone, I guess. The scene is good, lighting looks smooth, almost "creamy," lots of time to play with, no rush. Those big, rounded forties-era fenders of the '46 Ford pickup greatly contribute to that smooth interplay between shadows and light. Even the alley's secluded location is contributing to the anticipated success of my quonset hut photograph. It's nice and dark.

There's only one tiny issue that delicately tickles the corner of my mind, softly, intermittently coaxing me out of that sweet spot of total focus. Asking myself repeatedly, Should I have included those beer cans on the running board in the photo? Refusing to shoot two versions "just in case," my philosophy for these photos, as life, seems to be, you make choices and move forward. No second chances, do-overs or alternate endings. Still, that beer... I'm not quite sure.

Finally, towards the end of our shooting session, it became time for the man of the hour, Brandon, to come forward, don his protective visor and fire up the 220-volt plasma cutting torch. I took control of camera operation myself for this most critical and final phase of tonight's session, directing Brandon while simultaneously cranking off about thirty-five separate and distinct frames, sometimes exposing for the intense blue light radiating from the cutter's tip as it's splashing up and across the corrugated skin of the old hut, other times trying to capture the beautiful shooting globs of molten metal as they arc through the air, landing all around and at times on top of the welder.

Staring half-mesmerized at the brilliant light show being performed before us, I couldn't help but ponder the amount of power involved in creating such effects. Whether real or imagined, it seemed like an inherently dangerous tool if misused. Not having totally forgotten the possible conflict created by placing beer cans on the running board, I let my thoughts wander further, remembering the myriad of other power tools I had seen used in the shop earlier, cutters, grinders, reciprocating saws, etc., often described as vicious (at best indifferent of flesh and fingers).

All this hard work was serious business. As funny as the beer props were at the time, I did have some second thoughts.

While I was staring at the dazzling colored lights, clicking off frame after frame, still half-aware of this one fundamental dilemma I'd built into the photograph, it all became perfectly clear to me, of course! Obviously, these guys are all professionals. As all shop workers know, where safety is their number one priority, where men operate heavy machinery and cut metal with fire on a daily basis ... they all drink light beer!

Relieved that the visual conflict has been resolved, I enjoy the last of our mini-light show while banging off a few additional frames, announcing to the group as a whole, "That's a wrap!" half for show, as this isn't really a Hollywood production. A bit of showmanship for the crowd following our enjoyable photo session seemed appropriate.

Brandon, peeling off his welder's visor while uncoiling from a frozen pose precisely maintained over the past twenty minutes, walks around the front of the pickup, joining Tim and me standing by the side of the truck amidst the composition of axles and tools. We talk casually, laughing and joking while basking in the afterglow of a successful photo shoot.

Probably still recovering from maintaining his "welder's" pose so precisely for so long, Brandon casually grabs a Coors Lite off the running board, cracks it open and sucks back a couple good gulps.

In a final moment of clarity for this evening, I can now understand that both my questions have been answered: Yes and no!

Yes, life is good, and no, it doesn't get any better than this.

Eric Curry