Friday, 22 April 2005 | Accidental paparazzi

I don't make a very good member of the paparazzi, it turns out. The atmosphere is a little too chaotic, aggressive, and competitive, and the pictures I've been taking (famous heads against logo-stamped cardboard) aren't particularly interesting to me. I'd rather not impose, so I don't call out the celebrity names as they pass by, as my temporary peers do, trying to capture the subject's direct gaze. I miss the exchange of words and eye contact (when subjects are in view, my face is hidden by my lens), and I have a pronounced camera inferiority complex. (I treat my lovely Nikon D70 as if it were a disposable cardboard camera, shamefully trying to make it as inconspicuous as possible while it's in the company of its massive relatives.)

I also realized I'm not quite jaded enough to be paparazzi. (I thought there was a chance of that when a couple famous people walked by and I felt nothing, but it didn't last.) For example, I mentally lost my composure when Griffin Dunne strode by on the red carpet, but mostly because I was randomly carrying a copy of After Hours in my bag. (What are the chances of that? It's like I summoned him.) I really wanted to pull out the tape and show it to him (Hey Griffin, look what I happen to have! Isn't that crazy??), but I knew that in doing that I would out myself as a paparazzi imposter. Instead, I quietly stared at him through my inferior lens, my thoughts unfolding in silent exclamation marks.

Whenever the red carpet was empty, the other paparazzi would turn to each other and talk like friends, leaning against the rails of the press pen and guessing as to whether Jay-Z would make an appearance. I watched the door for him, and willed him to come. I thought it would be cool to see him in person, and even to take a flat, boring picture of him, but mostly I wanted to hear the paparazzi yell out his name, "Jay-Z! Jay-Z!" just like the television reporter in Jay-Z's song "Dope Man." He never showed, though.