The Stories Behind the Photos
David Lynch, September 2001
I was a staff photographer at the 2001 Toronto International Film Festival, having previously served as Photography Office Manager during a couple of previous festivals. This year though I’d wanted to get out of the studio and be mobile, figuring I’d get better shots. On this particular evening, I was on my way back from covering an event, and frankly, I was disappointed. The event had been boring and I didn’t think I’d gotten anything really interesting. So I made my way back to the Four Seasons Hotel, where we’d set up our base camp. This was before we’d switched over to digital, so we had a drop box at the front desk where all our staff photographers would leave the film they shot during the day, which would go out to the photo lab for processing later that night or first thing in the morning.
Anyway, I did my drop and as I was in the lobby, I noticed a figure out of the corner of my eye. Instantly I recognized him. He was talking to a woman, who I think was a studio person, or perhaps his publicist. To this day, I don’t know who she was. I knew I had to seize the moment, so I walked over, and as graciously and calmly as I could, I said:
“Excuse Mr. Lynch, my name’s Robert Bodrog. I’m one of the festival staff photographers. We’re shooting for the archive. I was wondering if I could do a quick portrait.”
“A portrait?” said Lynch in his unmistakable voice, with a tone of feigned surprise, or perhaps he was just being sardonic. For a moment I thought he was going to tell me to go away. The woman with him didn’t look very pleased.
“OK”, he said.
So off came my lens cap. Nikon don’t fail me now, I thought. I had a roll of TRI-X in the camera, and was about half way through it. The week before I’d bought a new flash unit, a Nikon SB-22, which I didn’t really know how to use, having never been a big fan of flash photography. I prefer to shoot in the studio or in available light. However, the lighting in the lobby wasn’t very good, so I had no other choice. I’d have to use the flash, which I’d set to the TTL (automatic) setting. So I did what I had to do: focus, compose, re-focus, set the aperture, re-focus.
“OK, look into the lens,” I said. Jesus, did I say that? I told David Lynch to look into the lens. Oh shit. I’m lucky he didn’t tell me to fuck off. OK, focus, focus. So I press the shutter. And nothing happens. What’s going on? This has never happened before. Oh fuck. David Lynch is in front of me, and my camera’s jammed. No it isn’t. It’s something to do with the flash. So I re-focus, re-compose, all the while trying to conceal my inner anxiety.
“OK, hold that,” I say, and press the shutter again. It worked. I think it worked. Did it work? God, I hope it worked. “That’s great, thank you very much. Have a nice evening,” I said.
As I walked past the front desk, the woman behind it said “You’re not allowed to photograph in here”, obviously oblivious to my credentials which were hanging around my neck. “You don’t have permission.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, wondering what the hell she was on about.
“From who?” she said.
“From Mr. Lynch,” I said, pointing in his direction. Then I turned around and walked outside. It was a great night.