Star struck

Midweek breakfast: We shared these sandwiches for breakfast. One Scandinavia-inspired one with cream cheese, lox, dill, capers, and lemon. The other Mediterranean with roasted red pepper hummus, cucumber, tomatoes, and crumbled Feta cheese.

Through the years, I’ve had my share of star meetings and interviews. At first, the thought of having to meet someone really famous was intimidating to me, but I soon found out that the bigger the star, the easier the interview. There are of course always exceptions, but I’ve found this to be a rule of thumb.

I was once scheduled to interview Caroline Kennedy. I can’t recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason I was very stressed. I think it was something about not getting there in time. “There” was a midtown hotel, and the occasion was some event with loads of press. Not ideal. It had also been decided that I should forego my usual pen-to-paper method, and instead rely on one of those palm-sized tape recorders. I guess it looked more professional. Anyway, I had to force myself through the crowds of people until I found Ms. Kennedy. I recognized that sort of sad smile of hers. She was courteous and calm. Friendly and sweet even. But of course something went wrong with that tape recorder. When I came home I found the tape blank. Luckily, I have a very good memory and I had memorized – verbatim – everything Caroline Kennedy said.

Another time, I was supposed to cover some affair in which Henry Kissinger was the greatest star in a line-up of starry guests of honor. I had been sent to the beautiful Pierre on Fifth Avenue, primarily as a photographer, as there were no interviews. Now, photographers and writers prepare and act differently during events like these. As a reporter, you dress up for the occasion more so than a photographer. Most photographers I know never dress up, not even if the President himself is due to arrive. Knowing this, I refrained from putting on something nice, and showed up in an old, worn trench coat. Camera slung over my shoulder, I took my place among the rest of the photographers, waiting for the guests of honor to parade on in. One after another, they filed in: Ambassadors and dignitaries. But no Mr. Kissinger. Eventually I decided to leave.

“Excuse me! Pardon!” I whispered as I squeezed my way through the crowd.

Once out of the hall, I was alone and about to make my way down the elegant stairs leading to the lobby, when down there I saw Kissinger enter, through the revolving doors. He too was all alone. It’s a bizarre thing to see someone you have seen on TV and in the papers for as long as you can remember, suddenly standing in front of you. As I descended the stairs, he came up. When we met midway, he reached out and grabbed my elbow:

“Young lady, where are you going?”

And that’s how I re-entered that hall with all the guests of honor and the photographers. On Kissinger’s arm, in an old, worn trench coat.

Pia Lindstrom, the former TV personality and Ingrid Bergman’s daughter, was another gracious lady. She spent hours talking about her life with me, making sure that the tray she placed on the sofa table included the correct number of cookies (in Sweden a cookie tray should feature seven different kinds of cookies, and hers did). Some time later, I returned with a photographer that I didn’t know very well. Upon entering Lindstrom’s beautifully designed, sprawling apartment, he blurted out:
“Wow! How much did you pay for this?”

I nearly died of embarrassment. He made it up to me though, the photographer, while Pia Lindstrom was in her bedroom getting changed, he took down one of her mother’s Oscar statuettes (for her role in Gaslight, 1945) from the shelf and photographed me holding it.

Some years ago, I set up what I thought would be the interview of my dreams, with my favorite author, the Danish Suzanne Brøgger. We were going to meet in her Copenhagen apartment and I begged my boss to send me a photographer. I knew Brøgger was a beautiful woman, and I also knew I couldn’t make her justice with my Canon Rebel. Sure enough, a Copenhagen photographer was located and all he wanted to know was when to show up? I said I needed ample time with Brøgger. This was after all the interview to end all interviews.

So there I was, sitting with the person of my dreams, in her apartment, drinking from her teacups and eating her biscotti. And there she was, just as beautiful and mysterious and intelligent as one could’ve hoped. And then guess what happened? I found that I had nothing to say. Nothing to ask! Nothing! Because like any fan I already knew everything.

Not once did Brøgger roll her eyes, ask to cut short the “interview” or in any way, shape, or form diminish me. Instead, she helped me out. She spoke about her childhood, about her books, and about life in general. She asked me questions. Meanwhile, I prayed for the photographer to come and save me. When he finally did, I watched as he photographed her. Then we left. Outside, in the cool, clear, blue light that is Copenhagen’s, we briefly looked at the photos he had just taken.

“What an extraordinary woman,” he murmured.

“Yes, yes,” I nodded. “Quite an extraordinary woman.”

It’s the less twinkling stars that give journalists and reporters headaches. The prima donnas who push for attention and are needy as infants. Their brittle egos demand constant pampering, yet they are never satisfied, never say thank you, never help you out, no matter how beautifully you write about or photograph them. 

With Henry Kissinger. Photo: Diane Saarinen.