countessian

mr cohen’s feelings regarding photography

“How do you like being photographed?”

“I don’t like it. I like to photograph others.”

I was alarmed when the young man beside me asked his companion across the aisle that question, because I’d been thinking how much I’d love to take his picture ever since they got on the bus. He was the image of a very young Sylvester Stallone, eyebrows and nose and black bouffant and all, clammy complexioned in a brown sheepskin jacket, probably mid seventies, that was slung over both shoulders like a cape. He’d earlier asked the girl in their party if he looked high; she replied: “Not really wasted, but… yeah, like you had a long day”.

[A long pause.]

“There’s an oil of me, an oil painting,” he continued, “sitting in a chair, wearing a tuxedo. It’s my grandmother’s chair. I keep it in my room, all year, but on holy days, on high holy days, I have it moved to the family room. There’s a menorah, too. See, my parents, I’m adopted, see, so they’re French, French American, so that’s why my name’s D—, which is very common in France. My birth name’s Cohen.”

“How would you feel if someone took a photo of you, without you knowing?”

“I wouldn’t care. Anyway, so, there’s Christmas trees everywhere else in the house, little itty bitty ones in the bathroom. Anyway, the oil was painted by an artist in Palm Springs…”

…And with that they disappeared into the dark of a Beverly Hills night.

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This entry was posted on Thursday, April 23rd, 2009 at 9:54 pm. It is filed under documentary. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.