Want to use my photo? That all depends...

I often use a camera in my work, but much of the photography I do is for personal enjoyment. And that enjoyment includes sharing my photos -- for viewing -- on my Flickr site.

On occasion, I receive inquiries about using my images -- on websites, in publications and even on displays. In some cases, I allow my photos to be used free of charge (but always with a photo credit) ... mostly by friends or for non-profit causes that I support. The key considerations: Is someone using my photos to make a profit? Are my photos being used in a way that is in line with my personal views and beliefs?

Sometimes, requests come from for-profit sources, such as a magazine, newspaper or (in one case) a publisher of telephone directories. In those instances, I allow use of my photos for fee (usually a standard fee), photo credit and copy of the published work.

For me, this is not about the money itself, but the publication's acknowledgement of the quality of my work by paying for it, as well as the principle that for-profit publications should pay writers and photographers for using their work.

A couple of weeks ago, I received a request by an author who wanted to use one of my photos (with full credit, of course) in an updated edition of his book. I found that that first edition could be purchased on Amazon. In reply, I simply asked about his proposed terms of use -- thinking that I should receive at least a token payment and a copy of his book. Apparently, he thought the lure of a photo credit should be sufficient, so he never replied.

Just this week, I received a request from a newspaper asking to use one of my photos in an upcoming special section. I've received payments for photos used in publications smaller than this one, so I thought it only fair to inquire about a fee. Response: Sorry, we don't pay fees for use of outside photos, but we'll give you a photo credit. My response: Sorry, but I can't allow you to use my photo.

Honestly, simply seeing my name printed in a publication doesn't qualify as "compensation". Over the course of my life, I've seen my byline or photo credit in print and online publications thousands of times. I don't have an ego in need of that kind of stroking.

I also have concerns that allowing free use of my photos by such publications might take opportunities away from people who make their living in photography. I know -- and respect -- quite a few talented professional photographers. And this comes at a time when some publications are cutting back, or even eliminating, staff photographers -- a disturbing trend, in my view.

Bottom line: I am delighted to have anyone view my photo collections at no charge, but, if you want to use one of my images, I have some considerations and conditions.

Musings on Madison Metro

Most days, I travel to and from work by Madison Metro bus, which allows time for reflections, observation, and an occasional nap. Sometimes, the trips provide entertainment and inspiration. Here are a few of the pieces of poetry and prose composed on a bus seat:

# # #

Falling, falling November snow,
Crawling, crawling, going slow,
When will I get where I want to go,
At this point, I just don't know.

# # #

Boarded the bus, but to sit there is no place,
Alas, school kids occupy much of the sitting space,
Late comers left to stand in the aisle,
But know that this all will change in just another mile.

Soon that fateful stop arrives,
Doors open, students emerge like bees from hives,
And in the wake of this daily kerfuffle,
Standers become sitters, and so goes the morning Metro shuffle.

# # #

"What would you do if I sang on the bus? Would you move to another seat? ..." 

First, let's be clear: I'm not the author of this. It's just that I heard it today ... while heading home on the only Madison Metro bus route that has an official name ... Yes, I was aboard The Sherman Flyer ... with limited stops.

And this wasn't just a soloist craving attention. It was ... for lack of a better word ... a choir, of passengers ... a group of Flyer regulars who had rallied around this Wild Idea, that the Friday homeward bound trip called for a sing-a-long, a rolling serenade down East Washington Ave, and all the way up to the far reaches of the North Side.

Today, as I discovered, they'd even gone so far to prepare alternative, bus-themed lyrics to recognizable tunes. It became apparent, as copies were passed around, that they intended to use them.

And I suddenly found myself sitting right smack-dab in the middle of this mayhem. With two singers to right of me, another to my left and two across the aisle, it began. First up was a modern Metro version of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" ... something like "Roll on, Steel Chariot."

And then, as my stop approached, the choir -- in direct defiance of the bus rider protocol that calls for ignoring the existence of all other human beings -- commenced a version of the Beatles' classic "A Little Help from My Friends."

The tune followed me, until that fateful moment when the doors closed. For a moment, I watched in silence as the Sherman Flyer rolled onward, pondering that question: What would you do if I sang on the bus?

# # #

"Howyadoin'? .... Howyadoin'? ... Howyadoin'?"

The driver boomed as each passenger stepped onto the bus, repeating the greeting as if it were a single word. "Howyadoin'?"

# # #

Her train of thought operated on a track that ran directly to her mouth, without engaging any switch or filter. From the moment she stepped on the bus, her train clattered and clanked at full steam.

"I'm so tired ... I'm running late ... don't want to be late. Oh boy ...."

The Bus She Really Wanted was somewhere up ahead.

Her volume control seemed stuck on high, so no one on this Metro journey was spared. Consequently, she endeared herself to none of her fellow passengers. But she clearly irritated the driver, whom she badgered to catch up to The Bus She Really Wanted, visible a block ahead.

Exasperated, the driver eventually implored her to disembark, but she steadfastly refused. A few times, she stepped out the door, but then hopped back on. She was running late, and called someone to complain that the driver was being rude and uncooperative.

Finally, another passenger convinced her that she might be able to catch The Bus She Really Wanted if she exited and made a harried dash. There was no chance that she could succeed, but she still bolted off.

A collective sigh of relief wafted through the bus. Then, all passengers resumed the traditional bus-rider practice of quietly ignoring one another.