The Princess Diarist(36)

“How’s your mom these days? I was sorry to hear about your dad. Did you and he ever . . . Picture? Oh yes, please. Is there someone who could take it so we’re both in it? Otherwise people won’t believe me when I . . . Oh, would you? Aren’t you sweet! You just press here after you get it all framed right . . . Okay, now, one sec . . . Is there any way you could put your arm around me? You can say no, I just had to . . . Aren’t you sweet? I will never ever forget this day, even without the picture . . . Okay, are we framed in the center? You sure? Okay, hold real still . . . Cheese!”

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the word “autograph” comes to us originally from the Greek autos, “self,” and graphos, “written”: self-written. As it is popularly used, it refers to a famous person’s signature. The hobby of collecting autographs—the practice of hoarding such mementos, which are often wrenched enthusiastically (if not savagely) from the hands of “celebrities”—is known as philography (or occasionally, “unpleasant”).

Some of the more sought-after signers are, in no particular order, presidents, military heroes, sports icons, actors, singers, artists, religious and social leaders, scientists, astronauts, authors, and Kardashians.

So. A keepsake, coaxed or inveigled from a celebrity by someone eagerly radiant, glowing with the recognition of a familiar face. A face as familiar as the closest of friends or family, and yet this familiarity is completely one-sided.

I grew up watching my mother signing autographs, writing her name on smiling photos of herself, or on pieces of blank paper hopefully held out to her by the outstretched arms of strangers who loved her. Her fans. The Oxford English Dictionary says the word “fan” derives, quite apparently, from the word “fanatic,” which means “marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion.”

The entirety of what Debbie Reynolds knew of her fans is that they seriously appreciated her talents. They invested tiny pieces of their souls in her. When my father dumped her for Elizabeth Taylor, leaving her squirming sadly in the world’s spotlight with two bewildered toddlers, they shared her pain.

That sort of familiarity bred quite the opposite of contempt, though something equally charged. In a way she belonged to the world, and while most of the portion of it that appreciated her was content to do so at a distance, the true fans seemed to want to assert a kind of ownership by coyly requesting, or pitifully pleading, or aggressively demanding, that she provide them with their coveted token, proof to all and for all time, in the pre-selfie era, of an encounter! An up-close brush with one of the cinematically anointed!

I would stand loyally at my mother’s side, watching as these memento-seeking well-wishers (MSW2s) gushed and giggled in her presence. From just outside her dazzle of limelight, I watched as she scribbled her lovely signature on the pictures, records, and magazines—many of their covers blaring “news” of the scandal she’d been subjected to—that were sometimes desperately held out to her.

“And what’s your name? Oh, what a lovely name! So unusual! Do you spell it with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’?” “I had an Aunt Betty once. I loved her very much.” “Yes, but only if you take the picture very quickly. As you can see, I’m with my daughter . . .”

“Your daughter?!!” these devotees would exclaim, briefly wrenching their eyes toward me. “That’s right! You have a daughter! Oh, my goodness, I didn’t realize she’d gotten so big, and a beauty like her mama!”

I’d frown and look away. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was there as an observer, not the observed. A witness to the world’s mysteries. The archaeologist, not the pit. I’d blush and tuck my chin toward my chest as the focus abruptly shifted to me, caught off guard, in the act.

“Isn’t she precious?”

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i can’t remember exactly when I started referring to signing autographs for money as a celebrity lap dance, but I’m sure it didn’t take me long to come up with it. It’s lap dancing without cash being placed in any underwear, and there’s no pole—or is the pole represented by the pen?

It is certainly a higher form of prostitution: the exchange of a signature for money, as opposed to a dance or a grind. Instead of stripping off clothes, the celebrity removes the distance created by film or stage. Both traffic in intimacy.

For many years I, like so many other high-minded celebrities with flourishing careers, could afford to cavalierly wave away any and all arguably undignified appearance offers that, accompanied by a financial enticement, could only be experienced by those engaging in said ignoble acts as, for want of a better word, whoring.

To be sure, it is “selling out,” which comes with feelings of embarrassment and shame. But if you’re selling for high enough numbers, the duration of that humiliation has a more fleeting quality. And the distraction of purchasing the odd luxury item, or—saints preserve us—paying bills, made the sense of shame similar to the embarrassment one feels about a weight gain of a fairly manageable variety.

And then, what is a loss of self-respect when placed in the context of diminishing worry about one’s looming tax bill or monstrous overhead? So, over time I have managed to rejigger my definition of dignity to the point where it comfortably includes lap dancing.

It’s just something that had to be gotten used to—like finding out your older sister is actually your mother, or winning the lottery but only being able to spend the money on Christmas Day. Hardly a hardship—it simply took some form of adaptation. With enough time, anything can be adjusted to, though things like torture would require adjustment of a kind I can scarcely imagine. But accustoming myself to scrawling my name for strangers was certainly within my capacities.