close your eyes and hope for the best

Neil Young before concert at Massey Hall Toronto Canada 1971.
(click image to enlarge)

…the more treasured photos came after the concert when I was given dressing room access where I photographed Neil with family members, friends and relatives.

Which of your photos do you treasure the most? Do the candidates perhaps include an image that garnered first place in a photo contest or perhaps one that was selected for the cover of one your favourite magazines? If you’re a commercial photographer, maybe it’s a photo that got wide circulation in ads and billboards and generated attention and new clients, or perhaps it’s a stock shot that’s sold a gazillion times and warmed your heart with the royalty payments.

The question of treasured photos sprang to mind recently during a Toronto studio tour in which I was one of the participating artists. A woman who happens to be an accomplished painter flattered me by buying one of my prints. “I love this,” she told me. “I’ll treasure it always.”

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George Hunter by Orland Gibson, 1944
(click image to enlarge)

Then there was John Diefenbaker. I’ll always remember him placing his hand flat on top of my head and saying, “Son, mark my words, I’ll be Prime Minister of this great country when this great country celebrates its 100th anniversary in 1967. Son, mark my words”.

On the last afternoon of April 1943, when I was wondering what to do, I dropped by the Trib to say hello to Gib. Erling P. Gibson was chief photographer at the Winnipeg Tribune and I knew him from having carried out freelance assignments for the paper. His son, Orland and daughters, Lois and Fredl were friends. My visits were never more than ten minutes. When I was leaving, Gib said, “George, keep in touch with Mr. McIlroy (the managing editor), I may be retiring soon. Not right away. In a few months. Probably by summer.”

Arriving home an hour later, my mother met me at the door with a message to call a Mr. McIlroy. When I reached him, he was brief. He said, “Gib just quit. D’ya want his job?” Dropping by his office early next morning to discuss the job, I questioned the salary offered. I think it was a hundred bucks a week. His reply was that I shouldn’t worry about salary as the paper had an excellent pension program. I told him I wasn’t interested in a pension as I would only be staying two years, even though I didn’t have a clue what I would be doing after that. I started that day, May 1 and as it turned out, my last day at the paper was April 30, 1945, two years later to the hour.

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