Something Seriously Wrong with Bill Cosby

Getting psychically battered by America's Dad was terribly unsettling

A few years ago I was working with a population of kids who were considered 2E, or “twice-exceptional.” They had a propensity to change names (and pronouns) on an almost daily basis. Many people, teachers even, get annoyed by things like mutating pronouns. Far from annoying, I found it endearing and empowering.  I was taught just how important names can be. Many (most?) of us just go with the name we’re given by our parents. Changing one’s moniker, even with so minor a difference as beginning to use one’s middle name, can give a person a new perspective. Often the change can bring new confidence: it feels good to proclaim a new personality construct to the world. Leaving behind one’s “dead name” is liberating.  Claiming a title like “Doctor” can be particularly uplifting. When I encounter someone using “Doctor,” I am reminded of their accomplishment. Even if the doctor in question is teaching fifth graders or guiding a division as principal of a Middle School, I honor that achievement.  So, when I was assigned to shoot Bill Cosby for Nick Jr. magazine, about the first, last, and middle thing I was told when receiving the assignment was “Call him Dr. Cosby…” Ok, fine. Doctor it is. 

I never was much bothered by having an extremely limited time to create a portrait (though the Red Hot Chili Peppers certainly pushed the corners of the envelope), as long as I had plenty of time to set up, adjust lights, pull Polaroids, consider lenses, I was fine shooting quickly. I learned to get my shot immediately, in case of a subject’s sudden cold feet (or more likely boredom) and rapid exit from set. We were tasked with photographing America’s Dad during down-time while he was making a TV commercial. I generally eschewed making stills on a TV or movie set because more often than not, we got stuck in some closet somewhere that made my job tougher while the subject was being wined and dined on the more glamorous (and higher-budget) film set. In this case, the setup was ideal: we were booked into a separate floor of a commercial film studio. While the TV commercial was being filmed downstairs, we had an entire studio on another floor entirely to ourselves. 

Our remit was to create a magazine cover including the good doctor and a child actor who portrayed young Bill Cosby in an upcoming TV project called Little Bill. The project was going to be animated, if I recall correctly, and it’s quite possible Bill—er, Dr. Cosby— had never met his young doppelgänger. We were aided in our production by the presence of one Earle Hyman. Hyman was Cosby’s long-term driver and “body man,” a function of the fact that he was the same height and skin tone as his boss. After dropping Cosby off at the studio, Hyman had nothing to do until wrap. So he came upstairs and sat in while we took polaroids and adjusted lighting. An affable gent—and why wouldn’t he be?—Hyman joked and played with the kid who was to voice Little Bill, and genially did anything we asked of him.  I had been instructed by my art director that the kid was supposed to sit in Cosby’s lap, so we set our lights and camera angles for that positioning. In case that phrase, “sit in Cosby’s lap” induces a cringe, remember that this was ‘round about the year 2000 before any hint of creepiness.  My assistant and I leisurely tweaked things; our subject wasn’t due until after lunch, and film shoots were notoriously long-winded, thus we weren’t expecting our subject for hours. We turned off our lights, set up our young actor with his mom and some books, and joined William Hyman at the craft services table downstairs. 

At the turn of the century, Bill Cosby was an American phenomenon. He had been a star since the 60’s (remember I Spy?), and created such iconic productions as the Saturday morning cartoon Fat Albert, and hilarious and culturally incisive standup and comedy albums. Legend. Then in the 80’s he truly entered the American pantheon with his portrayal of Dr. Clifford Huxtable in the Cosby Show. “America’s Doctor,” or more to the point, “America’s Dad” was a legit legend. Also a legit doctor. He may have been known in the industry for being difficult on set; the exasperated production assistants seemed testament to that, but to the public he was clean as a whistle. No hint of the diabolical and appalling predilections and assaults he indulged in, which wouldn’t become public for another fifteen years. At this juncture, I had taken my rock-star-wrangling skills and applied them with good effect to toddlers and CEOs. A little nervous, to be sure, but I had worked with the client on this and other projects a lot, was confident in my ability to schmooze a celebrity, and was not too worried about Cosby, “Dr.” or no. First mistake. My hour with Bill Cosby turned out to be one of the most bizarre and terrifying experiences of my life.  

He arrived on set, surrounded by a cadre of sycophants, toting a lit cigar. This itself was a subtle (or not) power play, as by that point in NYC you could barely smoke outside, much less in a public space.  To his credit, Cosby gestured to most of his entourage to leave us be, so it was him and me, mano a mano. Kidding, but only barely. Portraits, particularly magazine portraits with celebrity subjects who have a lot to lose, can be very much of a wrestling match. Nowadays, you just shoot with a big monitor right next to the photographer so everyone can see what’s up. Back then you had to look at Polaroids and trust the photographer to know what he was doing. I greeted Cosby with a Polaroid of our set with the kid and Earle Hyman standing in for him. I explained how we were shooting a cover, which would explain the seemingly weird cropping and negative space. 

“I’m not touching the kid,” he growled. Never mind that the kid in question, the young actor playing Little Bill, Xavier Pritchett was standing right there in earshot. 

“Oh,” I stammered, “I thought the magazine had explained what we…”

“I’m not touching the kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

I asked, as a courtesy, and to let him know I was deferring to his schedule and whim, whether he would like a Polaroid with him instead of the stand-in (which would entail 90 seconds of waiting for it to process, the longest minute in show-business) or get right to it. The latter was his preference, so we fired up the Mamiya. 

The Mamiya camera allowed me to shoot ten frames in about thirty seconds; then I had to pause for about ten seconds to change film backs and be ready for another round. It took between two and four seconds (which I guess would be uh, three?) to cycle between frames, during which time the mirror was up. Even with my eye to the viewfinder, I wouldn’t see anything as the camera cycled. It’s a pretty fast pace of shooting, but it establishes a rhythm that my subjects respond well to. I was shooting with one of my longer lenses for its graphic effect, and that put me further away from the subject. Two huge softboxes added to the isolating feel. The net total was that, though I was intimately involved with this shoot, I was also isolated from it to some extent. In that I didn’t notice Cosby had started a slow burn that I didn’t comprehend until he blew up. He was apparently giving me his game face repeatedly, but misunderstood the action of my camera and motor drive so as to insure I apparently missed most of his best work. 

I am not the most emotionally aware person at best of times, and this was not one of those times. Others on set later told me I had indeed missed some obvious clues that our subject wasn’t happy. I began to get an inkling during a film-back change, but couldn’t tell what I could be doing wrong. We were apparently out of sync. Even though I had used this same technique on hundreds of subjects, from dogs to divas, he was the first to have a problem with my rhythm. He was doing faces with an expectation of a shutter press, and then I would unwittingly flummox his plans by pushing the button at the wrong moment. I could now see that he was getting truly irate. Shooting a portrait is a dance between photographer and subject. Like dancers, each must be sensitive to the other’s moves even before they are. Being in tune with and accommodating of my subjects allows me to capture their best selves. If a subject tells me I’m out of sync, I’ll generally change up my steps to match theirs. Something about Cosby’s vibe did not elicit that grace. Like my dog Otis who used to detect evil auras and bark at them, I reacted to Cosby’s criticism uncharacteristically. 

Instead of adjusting my rhythm, the impish Irish leprechaun inside me decided now would be a good time to stutter my finger just a bit to slow up even further and then chuckle to see what contortion his face was in when the mirror came back down a couple seconds later. Unprofessional? Sure, what can I say? Thinking of my mother’s longtime nervous habit of laughing when things got tough, I think I kind of chuckled at fucking with the celebrated Doctor. At possibly great personal cost, certainly to the detriment of my getting my shot, I actually deliberately slowed my roll and fell into a syncopated non-rhythm. 

At the next film change, Cosby gestured me closer, cigar, kid, and claustrophobic lighting appliances notwithstanding. He growled, voice thick with menace, “I know what you’re doing. Knock it the fuck off.” Oh my God, Dr Huxtable just cursed at me.  Never a huge fan, I nonetheless was keenly aware of Cosby’s position in American culture. Further bemusing when he later came out with a series of speeches vilifying the coarsening of American culture. When you get cursed at by Bill Cosby, you stay cursed at. I nursed my pride and my wounds, obsequiously apologized and resolved to do better. 

Didn’t even get through the next roll, honestly trying to do better, before Cosby raised his arm, indicating we should stop. This time there was no mistaking the seething; that glare would sour milk. He gestured that I should lean in. I set down my camera and moved right as he turned to put his face inches from mine.

“Listen, here’s how it’s going to work,” he menaced, in a low guttural whisper, “I’m going to make a pose, then you’ll push the button and take the picture.” This statement of the obvious, and the threatening manner in which it was delivered, were both beginning to freak me out, but the best was yet to come. I sensed the eyes of my crew and client upon us. Though sitting on a stool, Cosby had pulled me down so I was bent awkwardly over him. The effect was disorienting, though looking down at him I was off balance and vulnerable.  As his eyes turned hard and he stared me down I felt my face begin to flush. This was raw power; he was acting this way because he could. It broke every norm and convention, and was completely disorienting because of it. Pretty much every celebrity subject I ever had was more powerful than young Jedi freelancer me. Yet I never in my career (or life, now that I mention it) have felt the wrath of someone acting out with such unexpected, and unnecessary, pathology. It was breathtaking, like a jump scare in a horror movie. 

“Repeat after me.” Come again? What? Am I three years old? Like I’ve never done a photo shoot before. Or like I was still in Middle School. So belittling. I have been disrespected by bands (looking at you, De La Soul), had people express contempt for my clients (paging Blondie), but this felt categorically different. 

“Repeat after me.” Uh. Wait, this was so weird. He expected me to actually repeat his words back. I wondered if I would have to write them fifty times on the board next?

“You are going to pose and I will click the button and take the picture,” I managed to choke out, still kind of disbelieving while idly wondering how we got here, where I’m repeating sentences to America’s dad. 

“OK, let’s take pictures.” In the same threatening tone, nothing friendly or funny about it.

Jell-O puddin’ pops America’s Dad Fat Albert my ass; dude was a psychopath. I managed to finish the shoot. The kid was a professional, hit his mark every time, had no interaction with his doppelgänger that I could observe. Cosby left and we all let out a collective sigh as if we hadn’t taken a breath in an hour. 

In the aftermath all I could think was, that is what an antisocial personality looks like. I have never experienced the feeling of being in the grip of malevolence as I felt that day. Really never, much less on a celebrity photo shoot. I suppose it might have been worse if I was a big Cosby fan to find out my favorite artist is a seriously bent douche. In the event, it was traumatic as hell. 

Fifteen years later, I wept as the true horror of Cosby began to emerge. Of course. If this was what he was up to on a one-hour photo session with a male photographer, it beggars the imagination to consider his torture of dozens, nay, scores of powerless young women desperately seeking his advice. I wondered later if Earle Hyman took off his pink shirt, got back behind the wheel, and drove Cosby to an assignation where he could ply an unsuspecting young supplicant with pills. Chauffeur Hyman remembered all of it, turned state’s evidence, and testified at trial. All of it turned out to be actually worse than our imagination. 

People talk about brushes with fame. This was my brush with evil. I’m grateful to have emerged unscathed.