The bone kept sliding out of my hand. I had picked it up at Ottomanelli & Sons on Bleecker Street, overloaded and teetering at the counter, balancing my cameras, my tripod bag, while I explained to the guy what I needed.
“The biggest you’ve got,” I said.
He wrapped it up in paper and I was on my way.
The moment I walked out of the butcher shop I realized how slippery and wide the bone was. I could have splurged for a taxi, or asked for an assistant to meet me, but I was still in the business of proving myself to the world by trying to do it all myself. Besides, I was so close, not far at all to the photo studio in the West Village, and look, all I had to do was place a thumb under the masking tape on the butcher paper and I could hold it all together.
This day, I knew I had to be early. Tony Bourdain might have been known as a badass and truth speaker but he was always early. I was shooting for My Last Supper, my first solo book. Tony’s would be one of 50 images in a project meant to mark a moment in history. All around me, chefs were coming out of the kitchen and becoming hot-shit celebs. I would ask each of them the same six questions and then photograph them. I had imposed no rules upon myself for this project, no must-dos. This was a relief from executing clients’ and art directors’ visions. I only wanted to push myself creatively. My wish was that each photograph reflected who the chef was at the moment they stood in front of me.
I had plans to travel across Europe and fly to Australia and India to collect shots of significant chefs worldwide; plus I kept going to the Upper West Side to visit the bar at Jean-Georges in an attempt to ambush him into participating (while taking in the Central Park views from the floor-to-ceiling windows, obviously). But today was all about Tony, in my favorite studio. In a new studio, you don’t know where the lights are; the assistants can’t find the equipment room. Shooting at Industria Superstudio is like the difference between staying in a hotel and staying at home.
Despite dripping armpits, a zen feeling washed over me when I entered the empty studio. I had, that day, done something I never do: I called Tony to double-check that he was okay with my shoot concept illustrating his choice of his last supper, bone marrow. Damn my insecurity. Especially since this is my book, my vision, not a piece of editorial that someone else had to sign off on. I promised myself that this would be the first and last time I second-guessed myself on a subject. If I’m not sure, how are they supposed to feel?
There are two parts to a photo shoot. The Before. And the During. Before the subject arrives at the studio, we are in a frenzy of anticipation. Tony was early, as expected, with a hippie-like drawstring bag slung over his oversized black leather jacket. I bounded over to hug him and he nodded a hello to the assistants.
He was even-keeled, as he always was. I longed to be that relaxed, so I suggested we go find some liquid cool, for us both. It would be good to chat and connect before I asked him to strip down.
I can count on my hands the number of times I have had alcohol on a shoot. Drugs? Forget about it. I even refused to share a joint with Heath Ledger (bummer, eh?). I don’t want to cloud what I am seeing.
That day felt different. I needed to take the edge off. This was such a personal shoot. My own book. Shooting my friend. I wanted it to be really good because he had been invested in this idea from the beginning. I wanted to do a good job. I knew how busy he was; it felt like such a big ask. I hate asking for favors. I’d rather be the giver than the taker. And the idea was so irreverent. I didn’t want to disappoint him.
We walked next door to Tortilla Flats, heralded home of Tuesday-night bingo so lively it always led to at least a second pitcher of frozen margaritas.
We walked into the bar under the Santa sleigh that lorded over the front door. Tony chose the seat at the corner, his back to the window. I slid onto the barstool next to him and propped my elbow on the curve of the bar, surrounded by the familiar Christmas lights and tinsel, which they kept up all year.
At 11 a.m., it was empty, and we had the exclusive attention of the bartender.
“Two tequilas, please.”
I sipped my drink in small bitter bursts. Tony motioned to the bartender, lining his empty shot glass next to the other. We must have sat there for close to an hour while I filled him in on the progress I was making, corralling chefs to participate in My Last Supper.
We gossiped about how Gordon Ramsay had given me a tiny shake of his head and a death stare when I begged him for a tiny smile. And after months of looking at Éric Ripert on the cover of the book design, I realized that it was the every-chef’s book and I was going to have to decapitate Éric for the cover picture.
I reenacted my call to him, me so nervous, Éric so gracious…
Tony listened attentively, making me feel like he really cared.
The light streamed in behind him, enveloping him like an angel. Sometimes you wish you had your camera, and you don’t. That’s okay. Some moments shouldn’t be recorded on film. Some moments are better as memories.
Tony and I met on a shoot for a men’s adventure-fitness magazine, an admittedly unlikely scenario in which to find either of us. I had heard his name but hadn’t cracked Kitchen Confidential yet. As he entered the studio, our first time shooting at Industria, he was like a daddy longlegs, slim and lanky. All business, we went straight into the changing room and he pulled out his two items of clothing for the shoot.
Tony had one light blue Hawaiian shirt and a faded black waffle-weave long-sleeve T-shirt. Where was the wrinkled-up, faded Iggy Pop shirt I felt sure was balled up somewhere in his life?
While he changed, my assistants scrambled to get some more apple boxes for me to stand on, and a wood stool for him to sit on. Tony was tall. They also grabbed a light blue and dark brown backdrop. I could use the blues to sort of camouflage him in that shirt.
He was totally efficient, ready in a flash, and we started shooting. The very hard, dramatic light that I had planned during set up was totally wrong.
Click, click, I continued talking, while my gut screamed, Wrong backdrop, wrong shirt, wrong light! Stop! Start translating the man before you.
I handed the camera to an assistant and asked Tony to change into his black shirt and follow me around to the back side of the backdrop. There was always some soft, natural light streaming through those windows. He hopped up on the silver metal table and sat cross-legged. Boyish, informal, sweet, smart, handsome, this felt almost right. But still not perfect.
I was impatient.
“Mind grabbing your jacket? Let’s go outside.”
We crossed the West Side Highway. The path had an unkempt, unwieldy, overgrown look to it. I kept shooting and trying to just see, see, see. Only focusing on watching. For clues. And then, BINGO, I get the shot. My shot. A few frames later we parted.
When I look at those pictures today my throat tightens. Leaning over a railing at the water’s edge, a light smile on his lips, he looked so carefree, so unencumbered.
It was time for the bone shot. Warmed with courage and tequila, I steered us back to the studio. I directed Tony to change, turning my back to give him some privacy while he walked toward the screened-off dressing room.
At the camera cart, I whispered to my assistant, “Try not to be too obvious, but you are on dick patrol.” I don’t shoot nudes; usually my subjects wear at least some clothes. And I really didn’t want to see my friend’s penis—too weird.
I fussed with the cart, which was already organized.
“Make sure nothing shows in the photo,” I continued. In those days, I was still shooting film and hadn’t explored computer retouching. The shot was the shot.
When I turned around, Tony was wrapped in a colorful sarong, lighting a cigarette. I showed him the tape marked x on the floor where I wanted him to stand.
I unwrapped the bloody bone and used a paper towel to dry it. My assistant held it while Tony adjusted himself and I grabbed the camera.
“Keep the cigarette,” I urged.
I knelt on the floor with a wide-angle lens and shot up. The bone looked huge and his head looked tiny. I moved out to get a full-length shot. I focused on trying to keep the brick wall level in the camera’s frame. I pride myself on shooting and printing full frame, so you can see the edges of the film on the photo. That means you know what you wanted when you shot it, no relying on cropping later.
Ten minutes later I had taken 50 or so photographs. I was done. I said so. Moments later, Tony was dressed and gone.
A teacher once told me to leave a place as you found it, leave not a trace or hint you were there. I tossed the bone out and it hit the bottom of the huge industrial metal bin with a loud thud, the sound of closure.
The first time I let any of the chefs see their images was at the launch party at Le Bernardin, my favorite restaurant in town. Éric Ripert hosted. We hung the 50 20-by-23 photographs around the room, one for each chef’s portrait. I was excited and nervous about their reactions. Especially Tony. I put the bone photo on the wall behind where Tony and his then wife, Ottavia, would be sitting. I didn’t think it polite to make him face the photograph while eating during the whole dinner.
We had endless bottles of champagne, all bedazzled with the words “My Last Supper” in clear white rhinestones; six-liter methuselahs for the waiters to pour and plenty of mini bottles to cheers with. It was a champagne extravaganza. The ice people almost let me down when they told me it was a sacrilege to make da Vinci’s Last Supper painting into a vodka luge.
We set the restaurant up so that all the guests had to enter through the loading dock instead of the usual door. Anyone who tried to push past the security bouncer only found the front door locked; they all had to snake through the kitchen on the way in, consuming a shot of vodka and a foie gras whippet en route to their seats.
As people swirled around enjoying the appetizers, chef Martin Picard from Montreal came up to me and said that if he doesn’t see that book right away, he was going to create a big scene.
“I didn’t come all the way here to wait around.” Thirty-six chefs had flown in to celebrate with me. None of them had seen the book yet. I entertained refusing, that seemed kind of fun. But I would be playing with fire so I got someone to grab him the book immediately.
After my thank-you speech, I drank my weight’s worth in bedazzled champagne. I hugged everyone. And wouldn’t you know it, people started dancing, which is how I knew they liked it as much as I did. The last thing I remember was dancing with Josh Ozersky, New York magazine’s Grub Street food critic, who I adored. I left just after Daniel Boulud broke the piano from dancing on it. (Bye, deposit.)
The press responded immediately to My Last Supper. The concept was “sticky,” my publisher, Karen, explained. Easy for people to understand and relate to. My photo of Fergus Henderson balancing a severed pig head graced the cover of The Guardian’s Weekend magazine, a brave choice that sent the vegans into hysterics. Legit!
The bone pic was at the center of it all. Many press requests came in, asking about that photo, asking me to bring Tony along for the interview. When I did, he refused.
Meanwhile, NPR’s The Splendid Table wanted to chat, Canada called, Australia wanted to print their own version. The U.K. wanted their own new cover with names of chefs. I smiled when a tiny paperback arrived, a Chinese version. I rated TV-studio waiting rooms, a.k.a. green rooms, like a Michelin inspector. I awarded five stars to the Rachael Ray show and its handmade warm grilled cheese, gooey and impressive.
The one sore spot in all of it was Tony’s unexpected reticence. Everybody was talking about the bone picture. I was so grateful for his foreword and his advice and being so game and lending me his body. Why was he so reluctant to appear at signings with me or on TV? It was hard not to take it personally.
One day I decided to flat-out ask if everything was okay.
He wrote back.
“…And to be honest, I’m very wary of being seen to ‘sell’ naked pic of myself. No doubt, I’ll be asked to comment numerous times and will of course, sing book’s praises!”
His email reassured me. It seemed fair. And I shouldn’t have been so surprised considering what he wrote in the introduction:
“I’m of two minds about my photograph. I do always joke that (as a comedian once suggested) ‘I want to leave this world as I entered it: naked, screaming, and covered with blood,’ but I think perhaps Melanie might have taken me too literally. I am sure we can all agree that it’s probably not wise to make career decisions after four shots of tequila.”
I understood that he had regrets. Neither of us had expected this image to become such a big deal. Images have so much power and you can’t control the interpretations.
I didn’t regret it, but I understood.
An interesting assignment came in from Gourmet magazine. They wanted to create a calendar with 12 chefs. I was thrilled. Was there ever a more appropriate commission?! The chefs were preassigned into two groups of six. The single portrait excited me the most. Groups are tough, people don’t blink in unison.
I probed them about their pasts. I wanted each page to reveal something about each “calendar boy.” Morimoto told me about his baseball-playing past, and baseball gloves with raw whole fish were procured! Cesare’s wife revealed that his signature sprig of rosemary has clogged the laundry machine many times. Clearly, he had to be photographed with a crown made out of the herb. Dan Barber stood barefoot in a pile of dirt holding filthy carrots and allowed me to smear dirt on his face and apron. If that isn’t dedication to homegrown, natural produce, I don’t know what is.
Tony’s was one of the last shoots. We were both zigzagging across the world, and our recent emails and texts lacked their usual glitter. I hadn’t seen him for over six months.
He arrived at the studio with Ottavia, a nanny, and a little bundle poking out of the crook of his leather jacket’s elbow. I was excited to meet Ariane, only four months old. After we all cooed, Tony handed the baby to Ottavia and I asked him to come sit at the table. With the help of a prop stylist we had created a place for him to sit with a silver pitcher full of expiring roses, on top of a weathered wood table loaded with old books, a foreign newspaper, and paper and pens, to highlight his writing.
He picked up the pen and started playing around. I remember saying, “Be mindful of what you write, people could zoom in on it and read it.” He kept on writing, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?”
I laughed out loud as we shot a few rolls. The picture was fine, boring, blah, then—aha! I thought. The baby! The other thing most precious to him. He needs to be holding the baby.
Ottavia placed Ariane in Tony’s arms. I asked if we could remove her diaper. She settled back into the crook of Tony’s elbow and started sucking his finger, gazing around, blinking hard and long between each flash.
There are people that I have photographed numerous times. Each time we meet, no matter how well I know them, they are different. I always aim to arrive with fresh eyes. As time goes by, they generally seem more relaxed. I suppose our shoots feel familiar, I am familiar. But also, more than that, life changes, we get married, have kids, get divorced, move forward, move on. We change. Unlike celebrities, the role they are always playing is themselves.
I moved closer, looking for a more intimate image, a way to show the world what I was seeing. He put the baby on the table on top of the newspaper; she sat with her arm up, eyes squished closed, fists clenched and balled up in frustration. Click. His enormous hand cradled her roly-poly belly. Click. His hand closed into a light fist. Click. He bent to kiss his child on the top of the head.
Click.
The photos came out beautifully. Soon after, it was Thanksgiving, and I gave him a gift—a framed photo of him and Ariane. He was nonchalant. I don’t know what I had expected. Maybe more excitement? Things change.
Time passed, we kept up on text. He mentioned his Italian girlfriend and often texted me paparazzi shots and articles about them. I missed him. I was worried, it had been a long while. We finally found a night to meet up.
It was January 2018, and freezing out. I was wearing a puffy jacket when I walked into his favorite dive bar, on time but in Bourdainland, still late.
We had a drink but he was distant. I wanted to break through, to get back to a place of ease. I knew his new apartment was just across the street.
I said, “Can I come over?”
He hesitated, and then told me that no one had really been to his house. I assured him that I didn’t care, that it was cool, that I wasn’t going to judge. He was still so stilted. I missed the old Tony, the one who always made me feel at ease.
We strode into the apartment building, me taking two steps to his every one. The building was so sterile it could have been a business hotel. I popped my blocked ears as we left the elevator and walked down the long hallway. The apartment was posh, but it wasn’t personal. He was solicitous, but he seemed awkward. I showed myself to the couch, and he poured me a whiskey. He showed me an enormous tin of caviar bought in anticipation of his girlfriend’s visit the next day. In the comfort of his own home, we started to laugh and chat, like the good old days, but for some reason deep in my heart, I felt a pang of sadness.
I lit a cigarette and asked for a tour.
Down the hall, in his bedroom, hanging just next to his bed, I saw it. The photo of him and Ariane, her head, his elbow, that look on his face.
“Of all the photos you’ve taken of me,” he said, “this is my favorite photo.”
I was stunned, honored, and surprised. I swallowed the lump in my throat. I sat down on the bed with my drink and cigarette, and after a moment blurted, “Well, then post it on your Instagram Stories, I need some followers!” And we both laughed.
On my way home in the cab, I smiled as my phone exploded in a symphony of likes, all of those people responding the way that I did to the purity of the sight of this man, his child, that picture.
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