Shooting Stars (18 page)

“Speidi” (Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt) is a classic example of working it for the money. I know about the couple because their deal was with CXN, and it was no secret. It started in 2007 when CXN set up bathing suit shots with Heidi. “Spectacular” shots were put out each subsequent week, and before the year was over, the girl that only a few of the
Hills
's viewers recognized was on the cover of
Us Weekly
talking about her nose job. The kicker: Speidi made 40 percent of all the sales, and CXN and the photog divided the rest.
¹⁰

Once
Keeping up with the Kardashians
blew up, Kim reportedly entered into a similar situation with another photo agency. Other celebrities like Tori and Dean use a company called StarTraks Photo for their setups. I don't know whether they get paid or not, but at the very least, notice that an image with a StarTraks, WireImage, AP, or Getty photo credit usually looks posed
¹¹
—almost a guarantee that the celeb was complicit. Just leaf through mags with a conscious eye; you'll find it easy to spot the setups.

10
. Specifically, what happens is this: Spencer calls Bartlet and they brainstorm. “What would make a salable picture? What haven't we done already?” Sometimes Bartlet will ring the mags. “What do you want to see Speidi doing this week?” Remember, the mags like pictures
and stories
. Over the next several years, Spencer (the business mind of Speidi) and CXN create comic-genius, salable sets one after the other:
Heidi at the grocery store strategically holding two melons; Spencer and Heidi in rabbit ears at Easter; the couple on July 4th waving American flags outside the U.S. Capitol;
and
a perfectly coiffed Speidi caught kissing in a row boat
. Not only do these self-made millionaires make money off their photos, but the mags also pay them for exclusive stories, clubs pay them appearance fees, and companies pursue them for product endorsement deals. Spencer bragged on David Letterman that in two years he and Heidi made over $3 million in “self-promotion.” Gotta give him some credit; that's not easy.

11
. These four photo agency names have not been changed. They sell celebrity images, but they are not paparazzi agencies.

Two weeks before she goes to jail for violating probation by driving with a suspended license, a small gangbang of men—and I—meet up with Paris Hilton as she departs a building into underground parking. Three savages form a semi-circle around her to get the front-facing shots and to prevent others from doing the same. This isn't “allowed,” but no one else is big enough—in stature or status—to prevent it. Their blocking pushes me to the left, so I come out with only side shots of Paris.

I am furious. Profanity spews from my mouth like crud from a clogged sewer. Elif has to drag me back to my car. “You can't win every time,” she says, trying to calm me down.

It isn't until we get home and I look at my photos that I notice something interesting: Paris Hilton is holding the Bible. And it isn't until a few days later that I realize the value of one photo: I had gotten a shot with the full “Holy Bible” words exposed. And no one else had.

That shot made nearly every tabloid and major newspaper in the United States. It claimed the entire front cover of the
New York Post
and was printed in papers around the world. It was the punch line of the late night talk shows. Even CNN bought the picture. Had I been shooting Paris from the front that day, as the three guys were, I would have shot only the rim of the book. From my angle, I got the whole Holy Bible.

I may not have realized what I was getting when I shot Paris from the side.
But she did.
When Paris walked out that day toward her car, she had neatly tucked the Bible under her arm, along with
The Power of Now
,
and she had feathered them in a way
no one
carries books. She had it all planned out.

The best thing about that shot, though, was the Bible itself. It was a hardcover, golden-colored Gideon's Bible, the kind you find at hotel chains. I betcha all the money I made on that shot—five grand at least—that it came right out of one of Daddy Hilton's hotel rooms!

* * *

But saved or not, Paris still went to jail. After her release, the media genius (and I'm not being flip) selected Larry King to conduct her first interview. So after Paris's midnight walk from the jailhouse, CNN's studios became paps' first opportunity for a photo-op with Paris as a free woman.

I arrive early at CNN wearing the “Free Paris” T-shirt I bought at a tourist shop on Vermont Avenue. My plan was to get a space on the second floor of the parking garage, enabling me to get a head-on shot of Paris when she exited the building. I knew everyone else would be on the street fighting for a ground-level shot, and I wouldn't have much of a chance in the throng of aggressive men. Regardless, I didn't come today to make money; I came to witness history.

I get into position as planned and over the next few hours watch the media converge. In one location, I've never seen more—we are well over a thousand. By 1 p.m., every U.S. news agency and many photographers on location from around the world are at the Cahuenga and Sunset studios, hoping to get a glimpse of Paris.

Her limo—a large blacked-out Escalade—arrives at three, but she is blocked by officious security and there are no entry shots. During her hour-long taped interview, we wait, hoping the exit will be different.

It didn't seem possible that Paris's celebrity could get bigger. But it did. I'm not convinced that she wanted to go to jail, but I am sure she used her internment to her advantage. To be clear, Paris is no dumb blond. Quite the contrary, this bombshell knows
exactly
what she is doing. All
Of The Time. She controls her media, not vice versa, and hers is a beautiful performance to watch. Even when you think that it's an accident that she's wearing something, holding something, doing something (even perhaps going to jail), you come to realize later that it was no accident (or if it was, she's turned it to her favor). Paris thinks ahead. Of all of us.

While she is inside, I soak in the scene. From my vantage on the second floor, Cahuenga buzzes electric and excitement swirls around the entire city block. Like steam rising off the street's asphalt, the paparazzi and the news media rise, erect and ready. Most people are smiling and I don't see any ravens today. We are beautiful blue and yellow hummingbirds, sparrows, and starlings. To witness something so newsworthy is electrifying. I haven't felt this kind of human media energy since I worked in CNN's Control Room. Thankfully, this is a happy news day. We all missed Paris while she was away. Twenty-three days is a long time.

* * *

The only person who has the idea to shoot from the garage is me, so the space is mine to maneuver, and I position myself facing CNN's exit door, one level up. We know the time the interview is supposed to end, and I have a former colleague from CNN who will text me confirmation. About an hour after Paris entered the building, I am out of my car, camera up to my face. I expect her to come into my view for a split second when she walks out the door before she descends the stairs to her limo.

“Paris!” I scream her name over the street noise when I see her. I am hoping she will look up and I will get the shot.

And she does—she looks directly at me and smiles.

And I get it.

And we have a moment. (Or at least I do.) I may only see her through my lens, but when I do, the media silences and like an old black-and-white slow-mo turns a half-second into about five. Paris and me. Just us. And for the first time—
in real life
—I see emotion in those stoic doe eyes of hers. There's true joy in them, no doubt. She is happy to be a free
woman. Yes, twenty-three days is a long time. And I'm not embarrassed to say it, I choke up!

After my shot, Paris walks down the stairs and gets into her limo.

UPROAR! The media and the paps are standing behind a blockade on Cahuenga and cannot get a shot. They are being blocked, unintentionally, by Larry King's car which has been pulled up behind the Escalade.

Par-is! Par-is! Par-is!
Everyone begins chanting.

From inside the car, she sees the media's dilemma and she reacts. Arising like Sleeping Beauty from her castle bed, Paris pulls herself up and out the door. Then, standing on the seat of the car, her head and torso well above the massive vehicle (a slightly unladylike move that normally she would not do), Paris waves wildly to the salivating photographers (also a very non-Paris-like gesture). Even though my shot is no longer exclusive (though it is the one they pick for
People.com
the next day), her action pleases me more than my loss disappoints. I pat a moist eye dry. Paris missed us too.

* * *

Cardinal Rule of the Paparazzi (per Aaron): Do not need or desire to be liked by these people.

But I can't help myself. I am completely schoolgirl giddy. Adrian Grenier checked me out—subtly but
definitely
—not once, not twice, but
thrice
tonight. Yep, three times. Up and down. Maybe it was his girlfriend he was with, but they honestly didn't look like they were having much fun at dinner.

I had gone to the movies alone, one of my favorite indulgences. Ocean-moist air was floating around the city, and the evening energy felt hot and exotic. On my way home—I walked—I passed Figaro, the French café. I was wearing a long, fitted summer dress cut down the front and my thin-strapped silver Havaianas. Casual but sexy. I had slept ten hours the night before and knew I looked my best.

He was sitting outside along the Paris-style sidewalk, and I passed
his table. We saw each other at the same time, and I stopped. We both smiled and he scanned my body, but not in an obnoxious way, more in an automatic way. I was not looking like I do at work. “Jennifer,” I said awkwardly, to be polite and to remind him of my name.

“I know,” he said. He introduced me to the girl he was with, and whoever-she-was, we ignored her for the rest of the conversation. I stood next to their table and close to him. He reflexively touched my arm and my hand familiarly as we spoke. Again, he looked at me, all over.

“What are you up to tonight?” he asked. And we chatted about the movie I'd seen and movies in general. He didn't mention to the girl that I was a pap, and we didn't talk about the paparazzi. He never acted like he wanted me to leave, and he kept a slight smile on those amazing kiss-me lips, unquestionably his best feature. When I thought I couldn't stay anymore—maybe five minutes—I leaned down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. It was an automatic gesture, like it was what should have happened. As I left, he looked me over once more, a bit less subtly.

So, the next morning, my celebrity crush in full force, I digress a la Bridget Jones: Must find way to get phone number to Adrian Grenier. Think pushing ride-along card is best way to go. That way don't come across like a groupie—can't have him thinking I want him too much. He must want me. But ride-along will make it seem like I only want to make money off him (versus make love to him). The Cardinal Rule is stupid.

Boy, I was in trouble.

* * *

Bitch
—that's another derogatory and sexist term the paps use. A bitch is a celebrity who makes getting his or her photograph difficult.

Drew Barrymore qualifies. I put her in that category with reverence, however. Drew's smart, just like her friend Cam. Both girls are a guaranteed sale but not easy to get—and Drew's often not worth the time put in. Besides her dreadful outfits, she's just not that interesting and goes to her office, an unshootable location, all too frequently. A shot of Cameron
Diaz will sell over and over for reasons of fashion. One of Drew will sell only once, for a fashion faux pas.

Still, Elif and I like working her. She lives on an untrafficked street in Hollywood—less than a ten-minute drive from my house—and Hollywood neighborhoods are pleasantly more low-key to doorstep than their counterparts in West Hollywood or Beverly Hills. As well, there are lots of other celebrities who live nearby if hers goes to pot.

Drew's main pap-avoidance strategy is based on her assortment of vehicles: she's got more cars than a CarMax lot. Sometimes when I arrive, I peek under her iron gate and into her wide driveway and note which vehicles are nearest to the exit.

Drew's house is situated atop a steep dead-end street, and when you doorstep her you can't sit right outside the house. (If she saw you there, which she most definitely would, she would never give you a shot.) Instead, you must sit down the hill and look inside every car that passes. She may still see you, but by giving her “space,” you won't immediately piss her off, and she might give it up.

At around noon, one of Drew's many cars comes out—a Prius. A young guy is in the driver's seat, and through the car's untinted windows, I see no one else inside. I grab his eyes intentionally. He averts my stare, which is odd. Though I delay, I follow. I am able to catch up to the car after about a minute. Still, I see only his figure inside. If a celeb were “hiding by ducking,” she normally would have popped up by now, especially because I hadn't followed at first. But this is Drew. I don't trust her.

A few blocks later at a light, I pull into the adjacent lane and from the high cab of my truck am able to see inside the car. And there she is, scrunched up on the passenger seat floor like a Nordstrom's shopping bag.
Nice one, Drew.
I pull in behind the car, but the driver U-turns and goes directly back home. Drew continues to stay down—stubborn, won't even admit she's caught.

Probably we're now wasting our time—Drew knows we're here and is obviously not in the mood for it—but neither Elif nor I feel like trolling.
We “park up” and wait for her next move. There will be a move; that we know. She wants to leave.