The Moment It Clicks: Photography Secrets From One of the World's Top Shooters

Pleasure Island.

    They told me behind-the-scenes photos were impossible.
     
    I knew I had to go to the top. Michael Eisner and I go way back. I’ve put him in a tree. I’ve shot him with Roger Rabbit. We’ve also done some male bonding in an 80-foot bucket crane over Disney-MGM Studios. He’s actually okay to photograph and knows the value of a picture.

    Time ’s writer was interviewing Eisner over lunch at Animal Kingdom. Being the photographer on the story, I knew I wasn’t invited. The only way I’d get close to the table was to put on a waiter’s uniform. I hung out at the bar, biding my time. The writer had promised me he’d take my case to Eisner. Right.
     
    The lunch broke. I made my move, cutting Eisner off in between the tables, giving him nowhere to go.

    He rolled his eyes. “What do you want?” was the first thing out of his mouth. “I need to get off the safari path, and I need to get behind the scenes with the animals.” You have to hit it hard and fast. He also knew I was a persistent pain in the a$$, which worked in my favor.
     
    “Okay for the safari and behind the scenes if it’s just for Time .” He looked around and his people all nodded. Done.

    Both pictures ran. Photographers… we’re pests. But we know what we know.

     

    “Be a PEST! They told me behind-the-scenes photos were impossible.”
Never Live with a Model

    “Then he beamed and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You could be management!’”

    Never live with a fashion model.
     
    I did. What can I say? The guys at the Daily News loved her, and were always asking for updates about my love life. Particularly Caruso, who was one of those Italian guys from Brooklyn who just adored women.

    But we broke up. Badly. Had to throw her out. In December. I moped into the News . Caruso saw me. “Hey howzitgoin’? How’s the girlfriend?” I shook my head. “Not too good,” I said. “I hadda throw her out. She’s gone.”

    His eyes widened. He grabbed me and threw me back against the wall. He had a wild look on his face. “You trew her out?!” he screamed in his best Brooklynese. “In the deada winta? Right before da holidays? You heartless bastard!”

    Then he beamed and clapped me on the shoulder. “You could be management!”
Dead Guys
    “I was always very careful when processing his film, ’cause the outline of a huge handgun was always plainly visible under his sweater.”

    Back in the ‘70s in New York, dead people turned up regularly. Subway platforms, street corners, parks—you name it. You just stepped over them on the way to work.
     
    Naturally, the Daily News had a crime photog who worked the overnight shift. Big guy, made bigger by the cowboy hat he often wore and the bulky sweaters he usually had on, even in the summer.

    I was always very careful when processing his film, ‘cause the outline of a huge handgun was always plainly visible under his sweater.
     
    Not that it was ever complicated. He shot 20-exposure rolls of Tri-X [ 1 ] , and there were usually three frames: one out-of-focus frame of the trunk of his car (as he retrieved his gear and loaded his film), another out-of-focus frame of his feet as he walked over to the scene of the crime, and a reasonably sharp shot of the dead body.

    [ 1 ] Tri-X—Kodak Tri-X is the legendary black-and-white film for the ages, staple for many years of photojournalists everywhere.

    That was it. Short and sweet. I always told him I liked his work.

     

Just Go Make a Picture
    “Maybe if you had a nanny kissing a moose. I’m just thinking out loud, Joe.”

    How about kissing a moose? Well, maybe just kiss the baby.
     
    It was my second story for Life . I was excited, but still terrified I would screw up and spend the rest of my career shooting for Compressed Air Monthly .

    The story was on nannies, a newsworthy item back in those days. John Loengard, picture editor and provocateur, called me in to discuss ideas. To John, a nanny was Mary Poppins, complete with pram and starchy uniform. I was shooting the story out west and the visual changeup had John’s juices flowing.
     
    “How about all the proper nannies and their babies out in the Rocky Mountains?” he suggested. “Or maybe one (in uniform) with her pram walking through a dusty cowboy town?” None of that was going to happen, but that didn’t matter to John.

    He paused. “Maybe if you had a nanny kissing a moose. I’m just thinking out loud, Joe.”

    I, of course, nodded and