Photojournalist - Dick Kraus - Behind the Viewfinder

October 3, 1998

I think that I can be excused for not remembering dates. I will soon be celebrating my 66th birthday. Oh, Hell...I never was much for remembering dates when I was younger. But, I do remember incidents.

Take, for example, The National Democratic Convention in San Francisco. I don't recall the year, but I do know that Walter Mondale was nominated.

Well, politics was not only being played out in San Francisco, but in our own newsrooms, as well. A new AME for Graphics had just been named and he decided to turn the Photo Dept. on its ear. He brought in a new department head, but he neglected to fully remove the old one. Which made for some very, very interesting times. The old department head was sent to the west coast to direct the efforts of the photo team out there, while the new man ran things back on Long Island. Each of these men had their own agenda, which was to try to make the other look inept. And the photographers were caught in the cross fire.

It didn't take us long, once we arrived at the Mosconi Center where the Convention was being held, to realize that we had no credentials. Well, we had credentials to get us to the press rooms, but nothing to get us onto the floor where the action was. Both of our leaders blamed the other. From Day One, we battled the frustration of dueling leadership and tried as best we could to get onto the floor, one way or another. Most of our coverage was done on the fringes, outside of the Convention Center. The frustration level kept getting higher as we were assigned more and more non-pictures for non-stories, just so that our leader on the scene could show that he was running things well in the field. But, our leader back at the paper kept screaming that our photos didn't match the stories and they had to run wire art on a daily basis.

As the convention drew to a close, the final night was the one that usually yielded the most dramatic photos. That was when the Party's chosen candidate and his running mate made their acceptance speeches. They would come out onto the dais; first the Vice Presidential nominee would come out and make a speech. Then the Presidential candidate. And there would be cheers and balloons falling from the rafters of the hall, and confetti and mobs and mobs of delegates carrying on in the aisles. I had covered other conventions and I knew what to expect and I desperately wanted to get at least one good shot from this botched up affair.

I had discovered that our reporters had seats way up in the balcony, just to the right of the speaker's platform and up high. I visited the spot and saw that it would be an ideal place to shoot from when the candidates joined hands at the front of the platform and acknowledged the accolades of the delegates. They would be rim lit from the spotlights and the balloons and confetti would be floating through the air and the massed bodies of the delegates on the floor would high-light the pandemonium that occurred. It would be a magnificent photo from that vantage point.

However, cameras were forbidden in that location. Well, maybe, but I had a plan. As that last day progressed through the last of the rituals that precede the grand finale, I began to smuggle camera parts up to our reporter's seats. They had a table upon which their lap tops were perched. I stuck a Nikon body inside the waist of my pants and a short lens in a pocket and armed with a reporter's credential for that position, I made my way up the stairs and with a wink at my writer associates, I placed the first of my illicit booty in a wastepaper basket under the table and went back down for the next item. It took several trips and the last one was the most difficult. That one was for the 300 mm lens. There were National Democratic Party security people all over the place and they checked any bags or packages that were carried into the area, so I had to secrete the lens on my person, somehow. The only place that stood a chance of passing inspection was inside my pants. The resulting bulge made it appear that this convention was a major turn-on for me and I had to keep one hand in my pocket to keep the lens from slipping down my pants leg. I wore a sport coat and if I hunched over and effected a limp, perhaps I wouldn’t look too excited or unusual as I limped my way up the stairs with my unusual cargo. Thank goodness the security people didn’t look me over too carefully. Perhaps, by now, they were used to seeing me walk up the stairs so many times. Even the limp didn’t seem to attract any attention.

At last, I had all of the items in place and I began to assemble them. But, as I was loading some 1600 ASA film into the camera, a passing security man from the Democratic Committee passed by and spotted me. He came over and demanded that I leave. I begged him to allow me this one chance to get a decent photo. I told him my sad tale of woe and entreated with him to let me get this one photo. He said that he sympathized with me, but it wouldn’t be fair to the other photographers who were denied access to this position. I explained that the picture that I wanted to get would be about the last thing that would happen at this convention. The photographers in the arena would be concentrating on getting their shots from whatever positions they were in and wouldn’t even notice me. And, even if they did, by the time they saw me, it would be too late for them to do anything about it. I must have sounded either very convincing or else very pathetic because he relented and admonished me to keep my gear out of sight until the last possible minute because he didn’t want a flood of angry photographers storming up the stairs at him. I agreed.

For hours, I sat in my lofty position. I was sorely tempted to try to sneak some shots as some of the luminaries of the Democratic Part stood at the dais and praised the candidates. I had to bite my lip to keep from succumbing to temptation when Sen. Ted Kennedy got up to speak. What a great shot that would have been, as the Senator stood at the podium, back lit by the spot lights and with my 300 mm and the 2X tele-extender, I could have gotten a dynamic close-up of him. But, my purpose for being there was soon to come and I couldn't risk further discovery for this shot. So, I waited. And waited.

And finally, the moment of truth was about to happen. Geraldine Ferraro, the nominee for Vice President gave her acceptance speech. I didn’t shoot that. Then Walter Mondale came out and made his acceptance speech. As much as I was tempted, once again, I waited. But, I put the long lens on my camera, under the table.

And then, at long last, Mondale finished. He beckoned to to his wife and children and to his running mate and her family and they joined hands and walked to the front edge of the platform. The balloons fell from the ceiling and the confetti erupted as the packed convention center erupted in a thunderous burst of sound. I grabbed my camera and jumped up on the table and..........just as I was about to press the shutter button for my long anticipated “grabber” of a shot, banners that had been furled above the platform, came streaming down between me and my subjects. From the front of the platform, where all the other cameras were, these flags and banners made a dramatic background for their pictures. From my angle, they just were dark shapes that broke my heart.

Oh cursed demons who begat “Murphy's Law.” How could you conspire to deny me the opportunity to shine in glory after being frustrated all week?

In desperation, I leaped from table to table, squashing reporter's notes (I did try to avoid stepping on their lap tops, though) as I traversed the press area looking for a niche between banners where I might be able to get at least one frame off. I heard startle cries of “HEY!!” follow me as I jumped from table to table. A young woman from the security force chased after me screaming for me to get down and go away. I ignored her. What could they possible do to me at this point? Banish me from the hall? What difference would that make, now?

At last I got close enough to the back of the platform where I could poke my lens between the banners and get the shot I longed for. I stuck my lens through the offending cloth flags and saw..... an empty platform. The candidates had done their thing and were exiting and all that was left was a deserted stage, strewn with the debris of a convention now over.

I wish I had a photo to add with this story. But, as you can see, I have nothing to show for my efforts. Alas.

Dick Kraus

October 3, 1998