Los Angeles, December 2003 |
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The Awards Show
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So what is an LA glitz event like? Well, black tie in LA does not mean a
cheap rented tux. I felt like I stood out like the out of town hick that I was. So long as
you wore black, you fit in. Black t-shirt--fine. About one in ten men were dressed as I
was. In a way the men had more flexibility in their costume. The women apparently were
told to dress uniformly in black outfits with generous decolletage. I got a drink and retreated to the edges, where other out-of-place lone males lingered. One was an art buyer, formerly with McCann of SF, with whom I conversed for some time. He said that he was amazed at the inappropriate promos he got. "Anyone who researched what accounts we had would have known that I only wanted to see people. but I got promos from food photographers, and followup calls from them, and they didn’t have a clue." He likes Rhoni Epstein a lot, the woman I’m thinking of hiring to overhaul my portfolio. The two guys I met next were both photographers who won categories like me. By this time the crowd had thickened and conversation was getting difficult. I got another drink ($5.75 for a glass of Cabernet), and found myself wedged between two tall women. A photographer wanted a shot of us, my arms around their waists. I think the size thing was the shot, shorty flanked by the two amazons. They were going to be the on-stage presenters, the ones who led the recipients off when they talked too long. I went back to the car to get my Xpan, so that I'd have something to hide behind. At my table it was the icebreaker that mattered. I was seated next to an elegant white-haired man who keyed into the camera immediately, "It's what I shoot with." Then G. Ray Hawkins came around the table--this was where he was sitting--but he did not recognize me at first (we’ve had hours long conversations in his gallery, and he has several of my prints). He recovered without really admitting that he didn't know who I was, and whispered into my ear--"You know who you're sitting next to you, don't you? Gil Garcetti, he was the prosecutor at the OJ Simpson trial. He did the photos in the gallery of the Disney Center." I hadn’t a clue. An A-list Celebrity then. We had a discussion about cameras, and then I showed him my Ireland booklet. He gave me the name of his editor that I should call on Monday, said, tell her who sent me. We also talked about how celebrity is an issue for him, that his name gets him attention, but the work has to be of quality. I mentioned the show I saw at the Fowler, that would not have happened if not for the name of the woman who took them. He agreed with me that the photos were pedestrian. Gil changed to the other side of the table and I moved next to G. Ray's wife. We tried to start a conversation, but the awards began. And went on, and on, like all awards shows I've ever seen on TV. They're just as tedious in person. This one had award categories that baffled me: Hair Stylist of the Year? The show came complete with live musical interludes and video montages and an MC who told offensive jokes: "How do they celebrate at the bulemic's convention? The cake comes out of the girl!" This evening could not happen anyplace but Los Angeles. It is an event of self-propelled momentum with little currency outside a particular closed local universe. As a First Annual event, it mimicked a generic media awards show. Yesterday Rhoni gushed to me about my prize. "This is the Acadamy Awards of Photography!" So they want everyone to believe. And if you're a company who's given the money to produce it, you're invested in pretending that, yes indeed, this must be the Academy Awards and worth the publicity. The evening had a feeling of play acting, of occurring for no apparent reason. A woman I talked to afterwards, a local photographer, when I mentioned how glitzy the affair seemed, said, "Oh no, this is not glitz. You should see glitz." I don't think the locals were fooled. |
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