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The day Annie shot me | page 1, 2
We enter the studio. There are several assistants puttering about, gathering equipment and making preparations. Leibovitz and Kim, a stylist for the shoot, watch as I display the clothes I've brought; a few ensembles are agreed upon, and Leibovitz announces that we're going to begin with street shooting, and then return to the studio. The shooting process is great fun. Kim pops over every three or four shots to adjust the sleeve of my coat or the collar of my shirt. She musses and unmusses my hair. She makes sure my scarf catches the breeze just so. We're set up on a side street a couple of blocks from the studio -- Leibovitz, Kim, a phalanx of assistants manning huge lights, reflectors and other assorted equipment and me -- so it is only natural that pedestrians who pass us on the sidewalk and people who watch from their cars as they motor by might assume that I, positioned at the eye of this creative storm, am ... someone. In fact, at one point, I happen to glance in the direction of two young women who have, for quite some time, been watching the proceedings from a few yards away; they smile at me flirtatiously and offer fluttering waves. This does not happen to me. Young women do not smile at me on the street; they do not wave. These gals clearly think I am ... someone. In truth, I am not someone, not in the sense that these people suppose me to be. Ricky Martin is someone. Calista Flockhart is someone. Leibovitz herself is someone. But because her camera is turned on me, in the eyes of those passing by, I become ... someone. Of course all celebrity is fleeting, and faux fame is the most transitory of all. Mine ends as soon as we return to Leibovitz's studio for some interior shots. Most of these find me seated, leaning raffishly against what looks to be the same picnic table where Leibovitz and I conducted the interview several months prior. After an hour of shooting in the studio, it appears we're about ready to wrap it up. After all, I've been there a good two hours already, far longer than I'd ever dreamed I would be, and we've surely managed any number of shots that will suit my purposes. But Leibovitz, looking over the Polaroids (she uses a camera that shoots out an instant photo as it exposes a negative), isn't satisfied. "I like your beard in person," she says of my tiny goatee, "but I'm not sure it's working in all these shots. Why don't you shave it and we'll shoot some more?" Fine by me, of course. I'm not going to decline the opportunity to have Leibovitz shoot another round of pictures of my mug. She sends someone out for a razor and shaving cream and, upon their return, I head for the bathroom and off comes the goatee. We do another 30 or 45 minutes of shooting before I make my way back out into the chill Manhattan afternoon, walking approximately 6 inches off the ground. Still, it is when the first prints from that session arrive by messenger for my consideration that my worldview is most decisively altered. Here are lush, elegant, beautifully lit photos of the type that one might see in any given issue of Vanity Fair, of Vogue, of Harper's Bazaar. But it is not Gwyneth Paltrow depicted in these photos, not Brad Pitt, not Rupert Everett. It is me. I have long had a complicated, even conflicted self-image. When I stand before a mirror, I sort of like what I see. I don't kid myself that I'm any kind of Adonis, but that man in the mirror has a pleasant, open and friendly countenance that strikes me as not so hard to take. The problem has always been finding others -- particularly single, female others -- who agree with me. But in these alchemistic photos, Leibovitz has performed some kind of wonderful voodoo. She's found the elusive me that I see in the mirror and captured it for all to see. These pictures are how I will look in heaven. Imagine you were someone who enjoyed playing golf, but who showed no aptitude whatsoever for the game. A mere duffer, you felt lucky when you managed to finish 18 holes with a score in the high double digits. But one day, miraculously, you shoot an even par game. You don't set the course record, you don't shoot a hole-in-one. But you complete a round with a score much lower than you'd ever hoped you might achieve. I suspect your whole outlook toward the game of golf would change. Sure, you'd return to your hooking-and-slicing ways soon enough, but never again would you despair that a finer game was out of your reach. You'd live your life with the knowledge that one day, if conditions were just right, if the stars were aligned just so, you could again be a scratch golfer, if only for one day. That describes how I felt after seeing myself in Leibovitz's lovely photographs. The trick is to again capture that lightning in a bottle. If my financial constraints allowed it, I could hire someone to oversee my lighting on a daily basis, to redo my apartment and mark all the spots that show me to my best advantage, to serve as an advance scout when I'm planning an evening on the town so that I am positioned only in the most flattering seats at the best-lit tables at approved bistros and boîtes. Instead, like the proud golfer who produces the scorecard that recorded his day of glory every time he plays with a new foursome, I suppose I should just keep one of these photos on my person at all times. That way, if I meet an attractive woman, at a party or on the subway, who seems not to grasp my greater possibilities, I can present the photo and say, "See? Here, given the right conditions, given just the right lighting and a touch of magic, is what I can look like. It's happened before, and it could happen again. You don't want to miss the chance to experience this transformation firsthand, do you?" As pitches go, it's a long shot, but what the hell -- I've been on a roll lately.
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