Tori Amos is Scary Sexy

The ABC's we all must face, to try to win a little Grace

Tori Amos rocks the trike at 275 Church. Photos by Chris X Carroll

Of all the royal doings in The Crown, I particularly enjoyed the scenes where the Queen hides behind a curtain on the second floor of Buckingham Palace while gazing down upon the arriving dignitaries without their knowledge. Shoots in my loft at 275 Church Street (upstairs from the DreamHouse) often saw a similar gambit. My studio was on the fourth floor, so interested viewers were afforded a bird’s eye view of any arriving dignitaries. My assistants and I would lean up against the window, trying not to disturb the curtains while trying to catch a glimpse of our subject. We could peek down and watch them arrive and enter the building, judging them all the way.

First, it gave us a heads-up for the imminent arrival of our subject. Not too imminent, as there were three high-ceilinged flights of stairs for them to negotiate before actually arriving at the shoot. Second, the practice provided a quick check in on what peccadilloes we might have to work around. Did they show up in a Town Car (Rosanne Cash), walk over together (Sonic Youth), get dropped off while Georgia went to park the car (Yo La Tengo), or show up with three giant SUVs, one for each member of De La Soul? Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, you know what I’m saying? Seriously, all too often, the way a subject entered the studio mirrored the way they were going to act on set.  Third, we could just get a quick gander to form an opinion before actually meeting them in person. 

Tori Amos got out of a Town Car, joined her publicist alighting from the other door, and strode confidently into the stairwell. No real clues to behavior, other than perhaps, well, confidence. No entourage: good sign. Black Town Car, a low-key way to get around New York, also a good sign. A bizarre hair piece drew my attention in the brief moments I spied her. Tight cornrows, with some kind of hardware, like beads or something, glinting around her henna-red hair. Four stories straight down, it was kind of hard to tell, but it definitely seemed like a “marvelous hair-do” (as Julia Child had deemed my dreadlocks that time). 

One thing about that loft, the staircase one had to mount was like the fog in Apocalypse Now— nobody came through unchanged. Three flights, made interminable by the height of the loft apartments with twelve-foot ceilings. Even with a fresh coat of paint and blaringly bright fluorescent lights, the stairwell was still creaky and dingy. At the top, one entered the loft out of breath, eyes wide, trying to adjust to the increased brightness (and usually, activity) and generally stood there stunned for a few moments, trying to adjust. 

idn’t know much of Amos as an artist, just that twin currents of anger and sexuality course through her music. She had written several songs about rape, played the piano with her legs spread wide towards the audience, and was simultaneously super sexy and totally terrifying.   I recall being absolutely kind of afraid of Tori and was a little apprehensive to meet her. I read her quoted as saying, “for straight men, I’m too raw, the emotional thing, the things you don’t want to talk about – that’s what goes on at my shows, [straight men are] tortured by what goes on.” Very self aware, that one.I will cop right here to not being that, ahem, macho of a guy so her modern feminist sexuality was terrifying. My daughter who knows things tells me she’s totally gay, but she’s been married to a dude and has a teenager with said dude so I think maybe the jury’s still out.  She’s stone cold gorgeous, with a mane of glowing red hair and a dancer’s way with the movement of her body. ‘Twas always thus:  female musicians have money on the line.Sometimes it’s about the music, but sometimes it’s about selling magazines, records, what have you. People like attractive people.  Hot pictures sell product, as simple as that. Tori had a vested interest in me, some photographer she’d never heard of, making her look good. I’d like to achieve a compelling portrait, but one where my subject looks absolutely fucking stellar is the true goal.

She made her entrance, blinking at the sudden increase in brightness. I should have known better, but still managed to approach her before she had really caught her breath. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it because when I mentioned her fabulous hairstyle, she caught me with a look and comment so vicious and cutting it’s a wonder I didn’t just slip out the still-closing door and vacate the scene. I don’t think she actually called me an asshole, but boy was it implied. It wasn’t a hairdo, it was this kind of soft curler, I’d never seen. It looked kind of like sausage links that she had had intertwined in her hair before heading to our shoot. I’m a heterosexual male, I can be forgiven for not being up-to-date on the vagaries of French hair styling technology.

I laughed, pled innocent, and noted how goddamn fabulous her voluminous locks were after the treatment. That, or the fact that she liked her Polaroid (and the antique tricycle I’d brought for her to sit upon) meant she was actually quite charming and professional during our shoot. Nothing like that initial conversational tone which hit me like a blow. Utterly gorgeous, she could have posed in those curlers and still come out a knockout. We talked about shoes, music, and hair. We had a truly terrific time, chatted very naturally about all sorts of topics and the shoot was over before I knew it. She was super nice, unguarded, very natural of affect, really great to work with. Thinking upon it later, she may well have thought, “What a moron!” and began enduring visions of herself looking fat in Rolling Stone. Part of my gratitude at being able to work with someone like that was to kick every possible ass to do my part and slay.

She understood the assignment with the trike, and sat astride it in her Louboutin pumps like a queen. I had bought that tricycle at some antique shop and busted it out every now and then. I recall asking Ben Bradlee to sit upon it, which he did, charily. Especially in the hands of an artist like Tori Amos, the trike makes a compelling and dramatic portrait. But what does it mean? I mean, sure, lots of images like being a beginner, or memories of childhood could be tenuously tacked on to the smoking hot redhead in the Louboutins. 

From the sublime to the ridiculous in the same shoot. I was always jealous of those photographers who figured out one shot early on, just repeating it ad nauseum. Joke’s on me, several of those photographers did pretty well for themselves. Hello, Dickie Avedon anyone? Me? No, couldn’t just repaint the white seamless in the morning before shooting, no I had to reinvent the wheel every damn time. 

After the triumph of the first set-up we came to the second. Tori Amos is a smoking hot woman and a true professional, so she looks great. But damn, what was I thinking with the stupid background? I mean, the astroturf, hmm,  I’ll allow it I suppose. We used Avery Dots to label rolls of film on every shoot. Using them randomly on a backdrop strikes me as very Trump mentioning person, woman, man, camera, TV as the first things his eyes land on. Here, maybe we can find a way to weave these plastic catering forks into the shoot. Umm, what? 

Maybe I should have dragged that damn trike around with me to every shoot? Philippe Halsman had his jump. I could have been the king of playground equipment. Putting Tori Amos in every shoot would have been a much better move. Looking back on these experiences with you all has been interesting. It’s easy to see the flaws in my work, to second-guess things like the orange Avery Dots. But I’m also trying to find some grace for my younger self. My svengali Dr. Pepper used to have me do this mental exercise. You picture yourself walking back in time, down a hallway. Along the sides are doors representing prior times and, more importantly, prior selves. He would have me go all the way back, and open the door on that scared little ten-year-old boy trying to understand his parents’ divorce. Tell him it’ll turn out ok, and take his hand and walk him out of the darkness. I could never do it without bursting into tears. Who am I kidding? I can’t even type about it without the water works. But I can tell him sincerely through my tears that it will be alright. It’s time for him to come out of that darkness and walk into the light. 

I don’t have anywhere near that level of trauma around my photo career. But it is nonetheless turning out to be more difficult to look back on my body of work than I anticipated. Especially ironic is that I’m so much better now. Both my knowledge of people and what makes a good portrait, but also the technological changes make it easier to have pictures “come out” in all different lights and conditions. I look at that shot of Tori in front of the dots and just think, “what a hack!” But, those portraits of her on the trike (or the headshots where she’s still sitting on it but it’s out of frame) are among my favorites. I didn’t know anything, but I knew everything. The way Beginner’s Mind collides with commercial exigencies produces some strange pictures. Add in the psychological elements and nostalgia, and you get a pretty spicy soup. 

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, isn’t Tori Amos fabulous?