I prefer taking pictures on the spot. I worked with Keith Haring three days in a row, a month before he died. Art has always been a big part of my life. I do not necessarily make an appointment. I was getting too old to spend my nights waiting in the cold outside. You stopped working as a paparazzo in the 1990s to focus on portraits. It’s true that no-one ever saw me coming. I have one of those faces you want to smile back at. Unlike some of my counterparts, who gave up quickly, I would shoot until my targets were out of my sight. Which caused Catherine Deneuve to call me “a goody-goody nuisance”. Celebrities tend to complain more nowadays. He knew playing along with the paparazzi was part of his work. He is one of the nicest public figures I have ever met, as classy as he was accessible.
It was the only way to let my friends know where to find me, and vice versa. I really enjoyed shadowing Jack Nicholson, for instance. I was driving my motorcycle from one palace to another. Most the stars would usually stay at the Ritz. We found a hole in a wall, on the façade, where we could leave notes for one another. I can only photograph people I like.Īny memory worth mentioning? Off the top of your head? The next, I was waiting for Yves Saint Laurent and Andy Warhol to stagger out of the restaurant Maxim’s. I also got to travel a lot, from Honduras to Cuba, where I met Fidel Castro, but I did not care for politics. They were giving away films-which wannabe photographers could barely afford-and assignments like free candies. One day I was snapping away at ministers. Then, when I reached twenty, a friend dragged me to the Sipa Press agency, where we were both hired on the very same day. After graduation, my first job consisted of developing photos. My aunt offered me my first camera when I was fifteen. It was magical. I knew I wanted to do that for a living. My grandfather took me to photographer Henri Ely’s studio in Aix-en-Provence, where I used to spend my summer breaks. I was maybe ten. I saw images pop up on a blank board. Speaking of celebri ties, how come you started off as a paparazzo … He laughed and replied: “So you are the genius here, huh?” My blunder had no consequence on my not getting the interview. It was simply a question of bad timing. Yet I introduced myself as Michel “Genius”. My breath was taken away. I was so nervous that I mispronounced my own name! One should never gallicize or anglicize a name. “Hello, this is Orson Welles,” he said with his legendary baritone voice. I was expecting a secretary on the other end, but the director picked up the phone. You just had to ring their hotel, and the front desk would connect you to their room. It is funny you would ask! Your question reminds me of the day I tried to get Orson Welles to sit for me. I called up the Plaza Athénée. In the seventies it was easier to get in touch with a celebrity. H ow is your name pronounced in English, “ g enius”? “I should get used to this weather though,” he says. We are chatting over coffee when a violent storm blows in. When I visit his Paris studio it’s a rainy afternoon.
He caught me exposing my wan face to the sun, he was about to do the same. Michel and I first met two years ago, in Aix-en-Provence, which happens to be his birth town, although he grew up in Paris. We were both visiting an exhibition exploring Marilyn Monroe’s relationships with photographers, like himself. It was in early March.
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