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Hollywood Hood
After you work on camera for a certain amount of time, you develop a sense for when a lens is trained on you. Or perhaps it has to do with acting or sports or martial arts; all of which make you sensitive to someone pointing their intention in your direction. Humans have this sensibility innately, anyway: It”™s related to survival. You simply must be still enough to react to the impulse.
Just shy of midnight a few nights ago I was sitting at Starbucks with one of my friends when, without thinking, I looked over to my right on impulse subconsciously searching for””yep, a professional lens aimed at me from the sidewalk on the other side of the storefront glass; I knew there had been something. I slid my hand over my face and hunched subtly so that my friend never suspected that there was an alternate storyline occurring underneath the narrative he was verbally recounting. I didn”™t particularly think the photag was paparazzi because I wasn”™t with anyone insanely famous, however I didn”™t particularly care to find out or have my photo taken. You see - or you will see, I should say - that I had no makeup on and was already hiding behind my wardrobe. A moment later I glanced back over, which begins the story of how I will show you the photo in the first place. At that point I saw the photographer was not alone: He had a female companion who was laughing kindly as he rose from the outside tables to come inside. Of course this all indicated that it was an amusing misunderstanding that he intended to clarify.
He apologized for disturbing me, gave me his card, showed me the photo on his camera and offered to delete what he had captured. The thumbnail looked fine and, even if it wasn”™t; most of my face was obscured. I wearily told him it was no problem and that I was of course always glad to meet artistic photographers and fine artists, and that I understood very well why he was looking for natural street subjects. I do like photography that is truthful, after all. And I do I hope I wasn”™t unfriendly: I was so very tired at the time.
My friend was processing what had come to pass in that brief, non-verbal, through-glass-and-lens exchange, but by then it was all over and I was so day-worn and my hands were aching so much from a sports injury that I can hardly remember what we talked about next, much less what happened after we left.
I did, however, e-mail photographer Oleg Volovik to thank him for introducing himself that night. He replied,
“Here is the photograph of you, it turned to be a bit funny at the end point, something like wearing a mask against paparazzi :) Of course, I'm not going to use it anywhere, it's just for you.
I looked at your sites ... Well, I'm speechless ... The only thing I can tell you right away is if for any reason I could be helpful in your projects that would be just a pleasure for me.
Oleg.”¯
Snap! Despite my defenses he did get me, but I'm not sorry about it.
I recognize that it is cool when an artist thinks you interesting enough to attempt to form some moment out of your natural clay, and of course anytime another artist e-mails me about ARTEMIS I”™m rejuvenated. There is a shared Hollywood counter-culture here that excites me.
My hands are feeling far better, too.
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