The Photoshoot Diaries II
The halfway point
Good morning! We are at the halfway point for the photoshoot for Classic German Cooking. Three full shoot days in my house are behind us, as well as one shoot day at a greenmarket and at two friends’ beautiful homes, while four more shoot days loom ahead. Sunday was technically a recovery day, but I think I was the only one who was actually recovering horizontally on my sofa; the food stylists were too busy preparing things for the next batch of days and the photographer and her team were at the flea market and elsewhere taking more photos and editing. The photoshoot was scheduled to go from the middle of one week to the middle of the next week, so that we would have a weekend in between. We needed to give the food stylists time to prepare the next round of recipes and to go shopping for fresh produce (in Germany, Sunday is truly a day of rest—all stores are closed and the only markets are flea markets) and to give the photographer a chance to get out of my apartment and into Berlin itself.
I want to help you understand the intensity of the shoot days at my apartment. So I’ll start with the actual schedule of each day:
We awake around 6:00, as usual, to get the boys ready for school.
At 7:00, the boys are gone and I take a shower and get dressed. I put away the breakfast things so that the kitchen is as clear as possible. I iron the fabric props and, if necessary, slam out a few emails and do any admin stuff. I have to force myself to eat breakfast, even though I normally eat later, because if I don’t eat by 8:00, the kitchen gets so busy I don’t want to intrude and then I get hangry.
At 8:00, the stylists arrive. They come each morning laden with bags upon bags of things. They fill the balcony with produce, and the kitchen gets stuffed to the gills with more food, equipment, bags, looseleaf recipes. It’s controlled chaos. The only thing I can do in the kitchen is dart in to make coffee for everyone, check if I can help in some other way, then dart out again.
At 9:00, the photographer and her assistant arrive. Ideally, the first things to shoot should be ready by then, but the photographer needs to figure out the morning’s light, while the assistant gets the computer set up. We briefly discuss the first thing being shot. Which props do we need for it? This tablecloth or that one? Or maybe it’s a napkin? No, wait, a kitchen towel. This plate. No, that plate. Do we have a second one? What’s the light like again?
By 9:30 or 10:00, the first food is out on the table and the first photos are popping up on the computer screen. This continues, minute by minute, hour by hour, until around 1:30, when the already faint light starts to imperceptibly fade. In between, we’re washing up, picking out the next props, ironing, always ironing, trying to remember to drink, forking a bite out of a finished dish in lieu of eating lunch, worrying about why the noodles are looking so dead and on and on. You or I might not even really notice when the light starts to change, but the photographers definitely do. The vaguest hint of nerves start to set in. We’re working against time here. No one has taken a break for lunch; I’m not even sure if anyone stops to use the bathroom. The only thing that stops the photographer is when her baby needs a quick feed. (This baby, you guys. She is perfect. She never cries. She smiles. She eats in mere minutes. She is so cute.)
By 3:00 pm, the daylight is officially gone. It’s still light out, but any photos taken are basically gray. The shooting day is over. The seven or eight dishes on the docket can officially be crossed off the list. The work day isn’t over yet, though. For the next couple of hours, the photographer and her assistant sit at the computer, working through the images, editing, cropping, making selects to send to the designer in the States. The photographer’s family sit in the living room, drinking tea, playing with the baby, working. In the kitchen, the food stylists are prepping for the next day and cleaning up. My kids come home from school, wide-eyed at the scene and all the people, then disappear into their room.
By 6:00 pm, everyone is done. The photography team takes leftovers back to their apartment for dinner. The food stylists pack up a bit for themselves. The kitchen is sparkling. We eat any leftovers there might be, then give the rest to our neighbors downstairs.
By 8:00 pm I’m in bed, but my nerves are shot. I barely sleep. And at 6:00 am, we get going again.
Where are my family during this time? The boys, mercifully, are at school for most of the day. Max is ensconced in his home office; I only hear him when the front door closes behind him when he leaves to get something for lunch. Once a day, he pops his head in briefly to see what we’re doing, but I barely notice; we’re all too focused on what’s happening on the table by the window. The way our apartment is set up, we can, like little worker ants, scurry back and forth between the kitchen in the back of the apartment and the living room (where half the props are) and dining room (where the remaining props are, as well as the shoot table in front of the windows and the desk with the tethered computer on it) in the front of the apartment without bothering anyone else.
After the first three shoot days were over, we had to get out into the city to get some other shots. Early Saturday morning, the photographer and I met at the green market and walked around until we found a few stands that had particularly knobby celery roots and photogenic carrots. Nothing too clean or uniform. She took photos of an egg seller whose table was laden high with egg crates and we bought honey from a beekeeper who keeps his bees in Tiergarten and a bottle of beet juice with a hand-lettered label. We bought kohlrabi with the most beautiful leaves and lots of brown eggs and bread. A quick nursing break with the baby and then we were off to my friend Ann’s house. Ann lives in a housing development in Zehlendorf that was built by the architect Bruno Taut in 1928. Her house is full of excellent little corners and perfectly chosen art and ceramics. We took lots of pictures there, carted away a huge box full of more props like Bunzlau bowls and French plates that Ann and her husband Dieter collected over the decades when they had a country house in Burgundy. After Ann’s, we drove to my friend Christa’s, whose kitchen is a fever dream of blue and white ceramics and tiles. The light was already fading though and it was the first time we had to use lights to shoot anything.
On Sunday, I ran over to my friend Marguerite’s, where she and her parents, who live across the landing, emptied their cabinets for me and I took home more plates and bowls and tureens from their collection. And I took the elevator up to my neighbor’s on the top floor of my building who loaned me some of her porcelain, including a Meissen platter that is a family heirloom and that I love with an almost unreasonable passion.
That way, this morning, day 5 of this shoot, we have a whole new array of props to choose from. And that’s where we are this morning. It’s 11:15 now; we’ve already shot onion soup from the Rhineland, Rinderrouladen being filled and rolled and baked apples with a gorgeous pitcher of vanilla custard. Germknödel await!
Oh, how I wish I could share some of the photos with you. Elena Heatherwick is such a master of light. The photos are worth all of the effort; seeing the book come to life through her lens is so emotional and wonderful for me. I cannot wait for this book to come together and to get it into your hands and kitchens. Soon! Okay, back to the shoot now. As ever, leave any questions in the comments!
I think Luisa should select a recipe for all of us to make on the day her book is published. A wonderful meal from Classic German Cooking and a glass of champagne is a fitting way to toast and celebrate Luisa and her team.
I’m loving your posts about the book development. It makes me think I should be more appreciative of the cookbooks I own. I don’t pay too much attention to the photos usually, but I will now.