Gustav Hoiland

By: Gustav Hoiland

Dec 15 2012

Category: boxing

Leave a comment

There was sweat tonight, but less than usual. Poised under the ropes, lens angled upward at the gloved beasts, I’m used to getting the occasional rain of force-detached perspiration. They kept their blood and sweat to themselves, and I did the same.

I wouldn’t strangerly waltz into Boston Boxing and start firing away, but knowing an insider and getting introduced to the crew has granted me license to scamper around the ring’s perimeter on fight nights and fire to my heart’s content. It’s a crowd of people largely unlike me, but having a camera and exhibiting a certain consistent focus seems to do the trick. In that there’s never been beef, just a pile of pleasant folk, enraptured in tactical (blood) sport.

I guess it comes down to playing the part of the photographer, or at least what any given crowd expects out of a photographer. There’s a strange charade that goes with it, generally hardly noticeable, but at times nearly overwhelming. I might be more articulate about this if I had any shred of certainty whatsoever.

Just a feeling.