Itdoesnt matter that you are not classically photogenic.
(The oneyou see next to this column.)
The photographer showed up at 7:30.
I also shot a large portion ofThe Ninesat my house.
(Again,convenient.)
There was one aspect of letting a photographer into my house that Ihadnt considered: my daughter.
Shes two, and from the time she wasborn, every camera lens has been aimed in her direction.
So it wasunderstandably bewildering to her that someone would care to take apicture of Papa.
I heard the shutter clicking,and realized, Oh, crap.
I suddenly had to decide whether my daughter was part of the JohnAugust media package.
Youmight think its because theyre shy.
Theyre obscured so thattheres still some veil of privacy.
On its darkest level, its sothey wont get kidnapped.
Click, click, click.
My daughter figures nowhere in that tale.
So it would be astrange picture to run.
JohnAugust plays piano with his unnamed daughter.
(Of course, if the story were about gay parenting, I might havedifferent rules.
Id probably be willing to sacrifice a bit ofprivacy for the good of the cause.)
And then I said, You know, actually, I dont want her in any ofthese photos.
And honestly, selfish.
I want photosof my daughter in my iPhone, not strangers inky hands.
If one dayher photo appears in theNew York Times, Id love for it be throughher own merit.
You know, when she cures cancer and negotiates animpossible peace treaty.
Meanwhile, Im just a guy who directed a movie.
Theyre scheduling aphoto shoot for theL.A.
Times, which wont be at the house.
Which willmean I have to wear shoes.
