I showed him the tape marked x on the floor where I wanted him to stand. When I turned around, Tony was wrapped in a colorful sarong, lighting a cigarette. In those days, I was still shooting film and hadn’t explored computer retouching. “Make sure nothing shows in the photo,” I continued. I fussed with the cart, which was already organized. And I really didn’t want to see my friend’s penis-too weird. I directed Tony to change, turning my back to give him some privacy while he walked toward the screened-off dressing room.Īt the camera cart, I whispered to my assistant, “Try not to be too obvious, but you are on dick patrol.” I don’t shoot nudes usually my subjects wear at least some clothes. Warmed with courage and tequila, I steered us back to the studio. Leaning over a railing at the water’s edge, a light smile on his lips, he looked so carefree, so unencumbered. When I look at those pictures today my throat tightens. I kept shooting and trying to just see, see, see. The path had an unkempt, unwieldy, overgrown look to it. “Mind grabbing your jacket? Let’s go outside.” Boyish, informal, sweet, smart, handsome, this felt almost right. He hopped up on the silver metal table and sat cross-legged. There was always some soft, natural light streaming through those windows. I handed the camera to an assistant and asked Tony to change into his black shirt and follow me around to the back side of the backdrop. The very hard, dramatic light that I had planned during set up was totally wrong.Ĭlick, click, I continued talking, while my gut screamed, Wrong backdrop, wrong shirt, wrong light! Stop! Start translating the man before you. He was totally efficient, ready in a flash, and we started shooting. Where was the wrinkled-up, faded Iggy Pop shirt I felt sure was balled up somewhere in his life? Tony had one light blue Hawaiian shirt and a faded black waffle-weave long-sleeve T-shirt. All business, we went straight into the changing room and he pulled out his two items of clothing for the shoot. As he entered the studio, our first time shooting at Industria, he was like a daddy longlegs, slim and lanky.
THE SMILE OF THE FOX NUDITY CRACKED
I had heard his name but hadn’t cracked Kitchen Confidential yet. Tony and I met on a shoot for a men’s adventure-fitness magazine, an admittedly unlikely scenario in which to find either of us. Some moments shouldn’t be recorded on film. Sometimes you wish you had your camera, and you don’t. The light streamed in behind him, enveloping him like an angel. Tony listened attentively, making me feel like he really cared. I reenacted my call to him, me so nervous, Eric so gracious… And after months of looking at Eric Ripert on the cover of the book design, I realized that it was the every-chef’s book and I was going to have to decapitate Eric for the cover picture. We gossiped about how Gordon Ramsay had given me a tiny shake of his head and a death stare when I begged him for a tiny smile. We must have sat there for close to an hour while I filled him in on the progress I was making, corralling chefs to participate in My Last Supper. Tony motioned to the bartender, lining his empty shot glass next to the other. I sipped my drink in small bitter bursts. My wish was that each photograph reflected who the chef was at the moment they stood in front of me. This was a relief from executing clients’ and art directors’ visions. I had imposed no rules upon myself for this project, no must-dos. I would ask each of them the same six questions and then photograph them. All around me, chefs were coming out of the kitchen and becoming hot-shit celebs. Tony’s would be one of 50 images in a project meant to mark a moment in history. I was shooting for My Last Supper, my first solo book. Tony Bourdain might have been known as a badass and truth speaker but he was always early. Besides, I was so close, not far at all to the photo studio in the West Village, and look, all I had to do was place a thumb under the masking tape on the butcher paper and I could hold it all together. I could have splurged for a taxi, or asked for an assistant to meet me, but I was still in the business of proving myself to the world by trying to do it all myself. The moment I walked out of the butcher shop I realized how slippery and wide the bone was.
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