Deliberately, With Subterfuge
Introduction
How to take pictures of a friend?
That are true to the friend?
When the friend is an actor?
When the friend also likes to put on a show off-stage?
When the friend is dying?
Your friend has agreed to be photographed. This is your one chance to create a portrait to remember him by. But you just know that he’ll put on a show for the camera, making it hard, if not impossible, to take meaningful pictures.
So, how do you go about photographing said friend?
For my photo shoot with Michael in July 1993, my answer to the question was deliberately, with subterfuge.
Fast Friends and 120 Film
Michael and I had met in Munich three years earlier, when I was living there as well. We originally got together for sex, with him helping me explore a budding interest in BDSM. Michael had been upfront about his HIV status and was careful to avoid any risk of exposure. He also was really good at balancing a calm gentleness with determined intensity. That made it easy for me to trust him during some wild play. It also provided the basis for us becoming fast friends.
Alas, when it wasn’t just us, when there was an audience, Michael was liable to put on a show. That’s how we got kicked out of the Ochsengarten, Munich’s first gay leather bar (which opened in 1967, two years before the Stonewall Riots in New York). When, one rainy evening, the crowd seemed unacceptably smug to Michael, he opened his umbrella right there in the middle of the bar and refused to close it again. Thanks to the immediate intervention by staff, Michael’s harmless provocation was over all too quickly. It also was exceedingly successful, with patrons yelling in anger and staff threatening us with police lest we get out, now! Just maybe, the crowd was a bit too smug. Michael’s instigation of this beautiful farce makes me smile to this day. It also helped take my banishment from the bar in stride.
At the time, we didn’t routinely carry high-resolution cameras in our pants pockets. Hence, I couldn’t snap a picture of Michael’s mischievous grin as we were leaving the bar that night. In fact, we didn’t have digital cameras at all. Apple’s QuickTake 100, one of the first digital cameras aimed at consumers, would be introduced only a year after our photo shoot, in 1994. It also cost $749 and took pictures with at most 640 by 480 pixels resolution. Instead, that summer, I was shooting portraits of close friends with my Mamiya RZ67 medium format film camera.
Besides its high-quality construction, the defining feature of the Mamiya RZ67 is its modular design. Lens, view finder, and film cartridge individually attach to the box housing the mirror mechanism. Fully assembled, the camera is rather bulky—10cm by 13cm by 21cm or 4″ by 5″ by 8″—and also quite heavy—2.5kg or 5.5lb. Hence, it helps to use it with a tripod and wire release. At the same time, all that heft does not include sophisticated electronics. Focus and exposure are entirely manual, making a light meter a must-have accessory.
The primary benefit of all this picture taking machinery is fantastic detail, with photos shot on so-called 120 film having over four times the size and therefore resolution of 35mm film. While analog film and digital sensors are not directly comparable and much depends on lens and film stock, 120 film offera more detail than most digital sensors even today. Beyond resolution, image size also impacts focus. Covering a larger area fundamentally requires a lens with a larger focal length. As a result, the Mamiya’s 110m lens captures the same view as a 50mm lens for 35mm film or a 9mm lens for a cell phone. However, since depth of field shrinks with growing focal length, medium format cameras favor images with limited focus and plenty of bokeh.
It Was Over Before It Began
Setting up the Mamiya RZ67 on location requires going through a number of steps. Start by cleaning camera body and lens. Insert film into cartridges, plural, because each roll of film has only ten or so exposures. Erect the tripod. Assemble and attach the camera. Connect the cable release. Measure the subject with the light meter. Configure focus and exposure on the camera. Then, and only then, are you ready to actually take a picture.
Such elaborate ritual to set up a big black box on a tripod makes it impossible for anyone to ignore the camera. But I didn’t really need Michael to ignore the camera. I needed him to believe that I wasn’t taking pictures. That it was just us in the room. And for that, the elaborate ritual provided the perfect cover. So, I prepared as much as possible before heading to Michael’s place. The camera was cleaned and assembled. All cartridges were loaded with black and white film. Set up would be fast and easy.
As luck would have it, when I showed up at Michael’s place at the agreed-upon time late in the morning, his partner opened the door. Michael had overslept and was still in bed. I set up in the living room, placing a chair against the same multifunction wall I had been cuffed to a few years back.
Michael joined me soon enough, but obviously was still waking up. I encouraged him to make himself comfortable in the chair and warned him that I might take a little longer to finish setting up. In reality, all that was left was setting focus and exposure. Just as that was taken care of, Michael yawned. I took the first picture. He curiously peeked at me. I took another picture. I asked him to hold still for a moment, so that I could adjust focus. He did, looking straight into the camera. I took another picture. And so on.
When I announced that I was finally ready to take pictures, I had already shot a roll of film. Michael perked up and started putting on a show. Because of that, most of the pictures I took thereafter are forgettable. The good ones, with exception of the picture of Michael and his partner, were all on that first roll of film.
I have no memory of whether I shared prints with Michael, even though I do remember using a photo lab in Munich that summer.
But I vividly remember two more encounters with Michael that summer.
That Weekend in Berlin
On a Thursday or Friday evening a few weeks later, I was meeting a friend at the Anderes Ufer, a gay café in Berlin. When I checked out a sudden commotion at the door, I immediately recognized the cause: Michael had fallen from the backseat of a taxi onto the curb. While helping him up again, he instructed me to pay for his ride. That explained why the driver seemed more than a little irritated. But otherwise, Michael assured me, he was all set. Sure enough, when I went looking for him before heading out, he had found his hosts for the weekend and was happily nursing a drink.
Saturday night, I was hanging out at the Scheune, a gay bar. I was about to head to the downstairs playroom, when Michael emerged from there, his face positively glowing in bliss. We talked for a bit, but he was eager to venture downstairs again, to find more of whatever caused that glorious bliss.
That was the last time I saw Michael.
As his partner told me months later, Michael returned to Munich on Monday. He was dead before the week was over, two months before his 40th birthday.
Over the years, the portrait of a yawning Michael, enlarged to 1.2m by 1m and framed, hung on the walls of several frathouse rooms, three subsequent apartments, and my office at NYU. When students inquired about the photograph, I just told them that it depicted “a friend.” Alas, as you just found out, the full story is quite a bit more involved.
Thank you, Michael!