Steve Martin

Because a number people have asked about him, I am posting my picture of Steve Martin.

Time: the late eighties. Place: our loft on Lafayette Street, New York City. The buzzer rang. I answered it. "It's Steve Martin", the voice said.

"Please come up. Ninth floor."

I waited at the entrance to the loft, wondering nervously what the size of his entourage would be. How will I get them all out of the way. Out stepped Mr. Martin from the elevator, dressed in a trilby hat, tie and blazer... alone. No agent, publicist, friend, lawyer, body guard, or wife.

Once I asked a writer who came to a shoot not to talk to the subject while I was photographing him, but he persisted, so I asked him to wait, please, downstairs, in the coffee shop. He was furious. I like not a soul present when taking a photograph. After all, I wouldn't interrupt the writer if he was writing or interviewing.

Mr. Martin drank some coffee, liked it, made polite conversation, telephoned his wife about the purchase of a painting and never made a funny remark or told a story. He disappeared to the bathroom three or four times. He complied with my directions from behind the camera with absolute exactness.

As we saw Mr. Martin off at the entrance to the elevator, one of us asked if he liked cats. "Oh! I love them, why?"

"We weren't quite sure what to do." Caroline said. "We have three. But in case you didn't like them we put them in the neighbor's apartment for the morning.