My Life in Focus Read online

  My Life in Focus

  My Life in Focus

  A Photographer’s Journey

  with Elizabeth Taylor and

  the Hollywood Jet Set

  GIANNI BOZZACCHI

  WITH JOEY TAYLER

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  Copyright © 2017 by The University Press of Kentucky

  Scholarly publisher for the Commonwealth,

  serving Bellarmine University, Berea College, Centre College of Kentucky,

  Eastern Kentucky University, The Filson Historical Society, Georgetown College,

  Kentucky Historical Society, Kentucky State University, Morehead State

  University, Murray State University, Northern Kentucky University, Transylvania

  University, University of Kentucky, University of Louisville, and Western Kentucky University.

  All rights reserved.

  Editorial and Sales Offices: The University Press of Kentucky

  663 South Limestone Street, Lexington, Kentucky 40508-4008

  www.kentuckypress.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-0-8131-6874-6 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978-0-8131-6885-2 (epub)

  ISBN 978-0-8131-6886-9 (pdf)

  This book is printed on acid-free paper meeting the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence in Paper for Printed Library Materials.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Member of the Association of

  American University Presses

  Contents

  Foreword by Elizabeth Taylor

  Prologue

  Introduction

  1. War, Hunger, and the Art of Getting By

  2. A Roman Rebel without a Cause

  3. After the Neorealism

  4. Jet-Set Jungle

  5. Introverted in America

  6. “The New King of the Camera”

  7. Black and White in Color

  8. Success, Italian Style

  9. The Artist in Me

  10. Without My Father

  11. Another Funeral

  12. Cinderella and Me

  13. Daddy

  14. Breaking Up

  Epilogue

  Index

  Elizabeth Taylor on the cover of my first book, The Queen and I.

  Foreword

  Elizabeth Taylor

  In 2001, my dear friend Gianni Bozzacchi asked me to write a blurb for a book he was publishing, The Queen and I, a lovely collection of photographs and stories from the twelve years Gianni spent working with me and Richard Burton. Reading the galleys brought back so many wonderful memories of that time, the so-called jet-set era: the glamour, the creativity, the incredible people I spent my life with, people like Gianni. You’d never know it looking at the exquisite pictures he took, but the Gianni I remembered, and the Gianni I was getting reacquainted with through his book, always felt a little like he was outside the party looking in.

  Reflecting on that time and those pictures now, I could see that Gianni’s insecurities, whether warranted or not, were inseparable from his photographer’s eye. By maintaining a certain distance from his own life, and from mine, Gianni found the perspective that made him such an indelible artist. Oh, sure, Gianni enjoyed the glitz, the excitement, the beauty, the allure of that life, but he was never impressed by it, and he never surrendered to it, as so many people did. Gianni, uniquely among his peers, photographed his subjects as people rather than as stars. He had a remarkable gift for seeing past the bright lights, for snapping us when our guard was down, when we were simply and beautifully ourselves.

  By the end of The Queen and I, I had remembered not just how special Gianni’s talent was but how thoroughly annoying it could be, especially to someone whose image was, for better or worse, reproduced and analyzed and debated on every newsstand in the world back then. So I wrote my blurb and sent it to Gianni: “Brilliant, sensitive, Gianni always catches the soul. He is a pain in the ass.”

  As soon as I’d sent that note I felt bad, and I deleted the last sentence before the book went to press. But Gianni was disappointed—he’d loved what I wrote.

  This is the dedication that Elizabeth wrote on the first copy of the book.

  Well, now I’ve read My Life in Focus, a book filled with even more stunning pictures, more fascinating, funny stories, more of the man and his work—which, of course, means more of me, too, and the countless celebrities who found themselves in Gianni’s sights over the years.

  So now I am finally ready to tell the world what Gianni wanted me to say all those years ago: Gianni, you are a pain in the ass. I love you and thank you for it, and I’m sure everyone who reads this wonderful book will too. I love you lots!

  Elizabeth Taylor sent me this foreword in January 2011, prior to the publication of the first Italian edition. She passed away on March 23.

  Prologue

  Rome, June 1976. The hot sun warmed the morning breeze, the Roman ponentino. It would not be a morning like any other, although it could have been. I had not been myself for some time.

  I left the house, as usual, to go to my studio in Via Margutta, not forgetting my favorite camera, the Leica M2. I took the usual route: Villa Borghese. I had felt annoyed, sad, troubled for a long while. I had to make a decision.

  I arrived on the terrace of the Pincio feeling uncertain, kicking stones and leaves. The square was empty except for a young Japanese American couple observing and photographing the panorama of Rome. When the two noticed me, the boy held out their disposable Kodak Instamatic, asking me to photograph them. He gestured very politely, showing me the girl’s ring so I would understand that they were on their honeymoon and wanted a picture of themselves with St. Peter’s in the frame. I took their strange, fixed-focused camera, looked through the viewfinder, then handed the object back to the boy immediately. They gazed at me, puzzled and sad.

  I took out my Leica, posed them, reversing their position so the girl’s head rested on his shoulder, stepped back, and began to photograph them. They were amazed. I smiled and handed the boy my Leica, telling him that I would not need it anymore. As I walked away, the boy ran after me and said that he knew who I was.

  I told him that was impossible. Even I didn’t know.

  Introduction

  Forty years on, my phone still rings at all hours. Emails clog my inbox. I don’t always know the language, but I always understand the questions: “Has Signor Bozzacchi started working again? Can we book him for a photo shoot?”

  Photos that I took in the sixties and seventies keep appearing in magazines and newspapers around the world. Even when my name isn’t credited, journalists and editors recognize my shots and presume that I’ve gone back to photography. It is a pleasure to find myself still in demand—but my camera remains hanging nearby on a hook.

  When I explain that I’m not back in the business at all, the next question pops out inevitably, a question that has pursued me since 1976: “Why did you leave photography?”

  The answer to that question is the story of my life, a story I’ve chosen to tell through images that have remained imprinted on my memory for so many years. Now, for the first time, the black-and-white life that I led in the sixties and seventies finally appears to me in its full range of color.

  The curious thing is that, throughout the fourteen years of my extraordinary career as a photographer, I never tr
uly believed that I had any talent. I was tormented by the thought that my clients might discover where I came from—a very plebeian Roman background—and think of me as a street kid who just got lucky. Which, of course, to some extent, is exactly what happened.

  One moment I was retouching positives and negatives and spending my days in a windowless darkroom. The next I was living among the jet set, sailing on Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s yacht, photographing Princess Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier in the royal palace of Monaco, and speeding along French highways in a famous “Bullitt” Mustang, Brigitte Bardot by my side.

  One thing’s for sure: I was in the right place—Rome—at the right time, when Hollywood fell in love with Italy and our dolce vita. My look—tight jeans, red hair, blue eyes—coupled with a shy and somewhat introverted character brought out the best in my subjects, the essence of their sensuality. Remember, it was the sixties. No one wore underpants. They only got in the way.

  When I worked, my camera often became an extension of my sexuality . . . or perhaps my sexuality was an extension of my camera? I said very little, instinctively letting my body language do the talking. My personal style became as seductive as it was original, and people would stop me in the street to ask for my autograph. Then they’d read my name and wonder who I was and what I did. Before I even became anybody, I gave the impression of already belonging to a world of famous people. In the end, I really did become part of that world. Deep down, however, I always felt like an outsider.

  I should stress that my insecurity didn’t stop me from entering the lives of many people who entrusted their image to my care: stars like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, Steve McQueen, Raquel Welch, Clint Eastwood; artists like Picasso; heads of state like Marshal Tito, the shah and Queen Farah of Iran; and many others in the world of the rich and famous. I’m convinced that all my doubts about my validity as an artist and as a young man in search of an identity were perceived as a demonstration of humility by the people I met. They appreciated that humility. It helped them open up to me and my camera. It got results and, in most cases, the photos were exceptional, even though it sometimes led to psychological consequences that could haunt both photographer and subject for a long time.

  It’s also true that my humility was born out of fear. I was terrified that the upper class would discover I’d dropped out of school, that I’d never formally studied photography, that I spoke halting English, and that the stunning locations my incredible career took me to were places I was often seeing for the first time. There were so many parties where I kept to myself, hiding behind my camera in order to discourage anyone who might decide to talk to me and thus burn my cover. At the time, all this insecurity left me terribly embarrassed.

  However, looking back on those photos, I now realize that my insecurity itself was a key element in my success. The distance I perceived between myself—a street kid—and my extraordinary subjects gave my shots a perspective that made them special. The world was accustomed to seeing movie stars and top models enjoying the jet-set life through the eyes of photographers who enjoyed being part of the same circus. On the other hand, from my vantage point off to one side, at a table for one, all I saw were human beings: men and women, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, friends and lovers. Those were my subjects: the people behind the legend. My satisfaction as an artist came from capturing with a mechanical eye an image that corresponded to the one seen by my naked eye.

  Today it’s easier for me to reflect on images imprinted in my memory, now that I have a deeper understanding of life, in and out of the limelight. I’ve no need to strike a pose, as I did back then. The introvert I was no longer exists.

  Clearly I had my reasons for quitting. For one thing, after Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s final divorce, the majority of the prestigious magazines that I’d collaborated with—Look, Life, Epoca, Stern, Paris Match—began to vanish. Many others changed their approach to photographs and celebrities. Scandal replaced glamour. Ugly photos were more in demand. Beauty was irrelevant and thus, too, was artistic expression. It all happened because of television, which made printed news old news. Magazines and newspapers needed something new to sell, and that something was photos of stars showing the worst of themselves.

  Above all, however, I was tired of living with a triple personality: Gianni Bozzacchi, the photographer who had to have a certain attitude and who’d become introverted in order to hide his ignorance; Gianni, the jet-set photographer, if not playboy, invented by the press; Gianni “Il Roscio,” the Redheaded Devil, the street kid who wanted to grow up, learn, and stop pretending to be somebody else.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy all the attention and privileges that sprang from my success: the headwaiters of luxury restaurants who’d lead me to the best table and later tear up the bill; intimate conversations with fascinating people; the company of a beautiful woman—or two . . . But I was tired of playing the role that I’d carved out for myself, tired of keeping up with its demands.

  Nevertheless, forty years later, it’s still the role I’m known for. I’ve since produced, written, and directed movies. I’ve published books. I’ve lectured on film and photography at universities all over the world. But even if I got elected president of the United States, I’d still be remembered as the man who was once Elizabeth Taylor’s personal photographer.

  My wife Kelley and I had been together for four years when, rummaging around in my archives one day, she realized that many of the photos she’d admired as an aspiring model and actress had been taken by me, many years before we met. She made me promise that, whatever it cost, I would share the body of my work with the world. She asked me why I’d shut that chapter of my life so abruptly. I tried to make her understand, but she wouldn’t have it. “You can’t throw away your past,” she said. “Maybe you don’t realize what you achieved. I’m going to help you!” So she did, and I promised, before her death in 1998, to do everything I could to get this book published.

  Gianni Bozzacchi, 1998. (Photo by Kelley Van Der Velden–Bozzacchi.)

  It was Kelley who provided me with just the right perspective to review my archives and revisit my professional adventures frame by frame, and in so doing, she gave my life back to me.

  In dreams one can meet great people. I am honored and awed to think that I not only met them in real life; I immortalized them. I lived with them and, almost always, we became friends.

  Chapter 1

  War, Hunger, and the Art of Getting By

  May 1967. Monte Carlo. I’d met Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Cotonou, Africa, on the set of The Comedians a mere five months earlier. And now here I was, a guest on their yacht.

  The moment we docked, I found a public phone, stuffed in a mountain of change, and spoke in the only language I knew, pure Roman dialect: “Hi, Ma. How’s it going? I’m on Elizabeth Taylor’s yacht with Richard Burton. Grace Kelly and Rainier are coming to visit.”

  Mamma: “You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  Me: “Sure, Ma, but did you get what I said?”

  Mamma: “Don’t call me with another string of lies!” Click. She hung up.

  I can hardly blame my mother for not believing me. She always said I had a vivid imagination . . . from the moment I decided to be born, in the small hours of the night of June 30, 1943, right in the middle of an Allied air raid on Rome.

  My father, Bruno, had enlisted in the army and was posted as a photographer with the army entertainment corps, stationed on Monte Mario, Rome’s highest hill. The moment he heard that my mother had gone into labor, he stole a bicycle and rode fifteen miles straight, arriving just in time to see me born. You could claim that my father was a fully accredited bicycle thief, given that he served alongside both Vittorio De Sica, the holy father of Italian neorealism, and the actor Amadeo Nazzari.

  I’d chosen a bad moment to come into the world. Less than two months later, what Italians know simply as “September 8�
� happened: Italy severed relations with Germany and the army dissolved, a dramatic moment in our country’s history, later immortalized in the classic 1960 Luigi Comencini movie, Everybody Go Home.

  Taylor and Burton’s floating home away from home.

  My father was no supporter of the war, nor of the alliance with Germany. But neither was he a guerrilla fighter. He had only two passions: photography and, even more so, his family. He risked a lot for us over the following months, trying desperately to find food in farms while bombs rained on the city like hailstones. With two massive armies—the Germans and the Allies—stalemated in central Italy, Romans remember those days as a time of hunger, even starvation. One day my father managed to purchase a live sheep from a peasant in the countryside and herded it miles home on foot. The poor thing got butchered and cooked on the spot, and our block neighbors descended en masse to share in the feast. Unfortunately, no one had eaten properly in months, and the next day the entire building went down with galloping diarrhea.

  Then the war ended, but not the hunger or the suffering. Bombed-out buildings stood as monumental witnesses to the victory of force and stupidity over reason. The air was thick with the acrid odor of victims still buried beneath the ruins, and time beat to the endless buzzing of countless swarms of flies. Curiously, those flies were to prove a resource. I’d sit on the bar of my father’s bicycle and watch as the world went by. American army tanks and their crews, now masters of the city, fired my imagination. I watched as smiling, easygoing crewmen, their tank engines running, broke eggs on red-hot armor plating and cooked omelets. They were my modern invincible superheroes, though in truth the truly invincible ones were those flies, swarming over the soldiers and their food in a siege that nothing and nobody seemed able to stop. Which is when my father, the veteran of a routed army, had his flash of genius, made a virtue of necessity, and designed and built our family’s first-ever flycatcher. Taking a length of stout braided wire, he opened it at one end in the shape of a squarecornered slingshot and then wove a web of netting across it until, voilà, his prototype flycatcher was ready to go. All this, of course, with help from Bianca, his wife and my mother.