Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon People

Nothing Personal
Bedfellas
James Haven tut-tuts the tsk-tsking; the Royal Philharmonic Meat Loafs around; and Cage and Arquette, together again? Plus: Tom Jones takes a panty to the head.
By Amy Reiter
[04/07/00]

Nothing Personal
Chevy Chase's pretzel logic
Former SNL comedian gets rampaging ego disease! "Barbie Girl" singer gets breast implants, gets "the creeps when I'm compared with that doll"; Plus: Boo-hoo! Darva and Rick officially call it quits!
By Amy Reiter
[04/06/00]

People Feature
Spicy Firebites, with a jumbo movie deal on the side
Rob McKittrick was a waiter at T.G.I. Friday's. Then he sold his screenplay. Now he has a six-figure bank account, a classic car and a house in the Hollywood hills.
By Daniel Kraus
[04/06/00]

Nothing Personal
Moneyman's gonna getcha
When your financial advisor is partying more than you are, you should start worrying. Plus: Kelly Preston gives Scientological birth to a girl named Bleu. Quel fromage.
By Amy Reiter
[04/05/00]

Column
Imagination unleashed in all its perverse glory
The Web: Let the Puritans figure out how to jam their mealy corks into the dyke!
By Camille Paglia
[04/05/00]

Complete archives for People

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

But my most serendipitous coup came the day that Annie Leibovitz agreed to take my author photo for the book jacket. Leibovitz's witty artistry and my pedestrian puss -- there hasn't been a pairing this unlikely since Michelle Pfeiffer dated Fisher Stevens. I feel like the schmo who stops in for a pack of gum and is awarded a shopping spree when it's announced that he is A&P's millionth customer.

I met Leibovitz a year ago when I was part of a small group of people invited to her studio to get a sneak peek at her then-in-progress book, "Women." It appeared she was in the process of making final shot selections and deciding how they might best be ordered. "Don't worry about stepping on them," she assured us more than once as we wended our way through the prints that lined the floor, "they're only photocopies." But it was hard to allow oneself to tread on those wonderful images, many of which were so unlike the whimsical celebrity photos so often associated with her. Instead we tiptoed along the 6-inch spaces between the rows where the concrete floor peeked through.

After a bit, I wandered over to chat with Leibovitz. I pointed out those images that I especially liked and asked a few questions about the process of working with such a large and disparate group of subjects. The conversation was a brief one, as was our stay at the studio, but on our way out, I told Leibovitz that I hoped to interview her when the book came out and she seemed agreeable. I had my doubts, though, as to whether she would remember, several months down the road, that she'd made such a promise.

But she did.

Now it's October, "Women" will soon appear in bookstores, and after I contact Leibovitz's publicist at Random House, a date is set for the interview. I'm told that she's agreed to do only a handful of interviews in support of the book, so I'm surprised to have made the cut.

"I've been looking forward to this," she says as she welcomes me to her new West Chelsea studio on the appointed day. "You were the only one to speak to me that day at the old studio. All the others seemed intimidated or something, but you had such kind things to say and asked such interesting questions."

I'm stunned. Not for a moment would I have believed that she would have the slightest inkling that she and I have ever met before.

As we sit down to do the interview, I tell her that we're fellow Random House authors, that my first book is to be published by Villard, one of Random's imprints, in the spring. She asks a couple of questions about my book and we settle down to begin the interview.

It flows easily, more conversation than Q&A. We talk about the early days of her career, about our shared fascination with Mississippi, about how one can sometimes feel trapped by success.

As I pack up my gear at interview's end, I say, jokingly (OK, half-jokingly), "So, Annie, I have to ask: Do you offer a discount to Random House authors? Because, you know, I need an author photo for my book."

Am I fantasizing that she might somehow agree to shoot me? Yes, of course, but what I really expect is that she'll laugh off my silly little suggestion, thank me for my time, point me toward the door and get on with her day. Instead she says, "Oh, you need an author photo? Great, let's do it!"

I am nearly speechless.

It takes several weeks to finally pin down a date for the shoot. Two or three dates are agreed upon, but each time Leibovitz's assistant calls a day or two in advance to reschedule -- which I find worrisome, as I harbor a sneaking suspicion that the universe couldn't really be so out of whack that I will actually be allowed to sit for Annie Leibovitz. I'm fearful that there must surely be an out-of-control bus somewhere with my name on it intended to set things right before I make it safely to Leibovitz's studio.

Finally, an arranged day and time arrives without postponement. I gather a few shirts, two or three pairs of pants, a couple of sweaters and two sport coats and make my way to Leibovitz's studio.

Here's what I expect will happen: Some underling will take a quick look at my clothes and, with a grimace, say "That shirt and those pants," and plant me on a stool in front of an arty gray screen. Leibovitz will appear, a few pleasantries will be exchanged, she'll shoot 10 or 15 quick shots and I'll be politely shown the door.

I'll be there 30 minutes, tops.

But that's not what happens. Instead I enter the studio's front office, where several assistants, most of whom I met the day we did the interview, greet me warmly. Leibovitz is not cooling her heels in some back room; she's right here and seems happy to see me.

Next page | Two young women smile at me flirtatiously and offer fluttering waves