In his early 20s, before he'd typed the closing line of his first play, his agent arranged a photographer to visit his attic apartment. She was sent to photograph him for the publicity stills.
The photographer had carried an unwieldy medium format camera and a wooden tripod up the narrow, rickety staircase. He'd had to stay still for long minutes in the soft light cast through the dormer window. Gazing intently at the curious device in front of him. Feeling awkward and ungainly and wondering to himself if she was capturing the dirty dishes to his left. Dirty dishes that had been clogging up the kitchen sink for weeks now as he worked tirelessly on finishing his debut play.
As he forcefully typed "Curtain" - a cigarette dangling from his lips and the last vestiges of a glass of bourbon and dry on the dusty table to the right of the typewriter - he wondered about the portrait. How he would be perceived by theatre-goers, critics, the big names in the industry, and even the leading ladies in the play he'd just completed.
Months later, as he stood in front of the theatre on opening night, his visage gazing back at him at more than double his size, he knew his agent had sent the right photographer. She had captured him as the talented and sophisticated, though currently penniless, playwright he'd always imagined himself to be. He vowed then and there to strictly control his image. To always be portrayed a particular way and not be caught unawares by those around him out of character.
He was meticulous in this aim. As the years went on, he shunned family photographs, casual photos with friends. He found convenient excuses to leave the room whenever someone drew their camera from their pocketbooks. It became more difficult as the devices became smaller. But somehow, he stayed always a step ahead.
Despite his aversion to being captured by keen amateurs, he became a keen amateur photographer himself.
He employed the photographer who captured him that first time to show him how to use a more modern, more compact device. She patiently taught him all she knew, and soon he was capturing candid photographs of the cast as they rehearsed. As well as portraits of the backstage crew as they worked the curtains and lights.
When they both had time, he practised taking more formal portraiture with the photographer as his subject.
Through these lessons and portrait sittings, they became fast friends and then lovers. They traded jokes and flirted as he snapped away, capturing her beauty on film. She appeared as effortlessly beautiful in front of the camera as she was assuredly in command behind the camera. She was the only one he allowed to take his publicity portraits. But he wouldn't allow even her to photograph him at ease, unawares.
On one occasion, he realised she had captured a candid Polaroid of him as they honeymooned. He angrily snatched the still-developing print from between her fingers as she fanned it to speed its development. He swiftly drew his lighter from his pocket and touched the flame to the corner of the print. He watched it melt and burn before discarding the remnants in an ashtray on a table outside a nearby cafe.
He turned on her and reminded her his image was his, and his alone, to curate and control. In that moment, he watched her happiness and love for him also melt and burn away to ash, but he barely noticed through his fury.
She ceased working as a professional photographer to raise their children. She focussed her lens on them, and he sought out a new visionary to direct in his depiction of himself.
Many were competent, and he was able to cultivate the persona he wanted through their eyes. There was something different, though. The images were good but not up to his wife's standard.
Over the years, he and his wife both photographed their children extensively, and he still trained his lens on her. She never photographed him again.
During family reunions, they pored over the snapshots from their travels with their families. Both sets of parents commented on his conspicuous absence in the photos. Seeming to ask if he'd actually been with his family on this trip or that. If he had, he'd seemingly left no trace in the photographs. He shrugged it off and pointed out the photos he'd taken as proof of his presence.
As the decades went by, his plays gained new audiences. They opened in theatres all around the world to packed houses. And curtains closed to standing ovations.
Uncountable column inches were printed discussing the themes in his plays, the characters. How well written they were, how evocative the storylines, and how intense the dialogue.
He was photographed by some of the most formidable talents in the industry to accompany the various articles, biographies, published scripts and programmes for his plays.
Over the years, he continued to maintain a close rein on his image. Even his children were forbidden from photographing him, writing about him or being interviewed about him. It was the one thing he enforced. Always.
As he reached his peak, he was invited to write his memoir by a prestigious publisher.
Writing the memoir was a walk in the park after all the dramatic plays he'd written over the years. He knew how he wanted to be seen, what he wanted to say. His memories were vivid and flowed easily from his heart and mind to the printed page.
But, as he worked with the art director and publisher on pulling together the images and quotes from others for the autobiography, a gap quickly appeared.
For someone otherwise so devoted to his family, there was no visual or written connection between him and this woman and children.
At his request, she had never uttered a word about him to the press in love or in anger. Nor had his children.
The family photographs appeared to be of a single mother with her two children, not of a loving, caring family of four. He was notably absent, even if not actually absent, out of frame or behind the camera.
He had pages upon pages of rave reviews from critics. Lengthy articles and interviews from all the major papers and theatre press. Publicity portraits from each of his plays.
But, as far as his family was concerned - the people he felt most important in his life - he was the invisible man. He simply didn't exist.
