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To the man who watched her, this was
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I WAS supposed to deliver some photographs at Joan Crawford’s house. It was just a routine stop — not that I don’t always enjoy seeing Joan. I’m proud that I’m one of her friends. (So proud that I named my daughter for her.)
Anyhow, I was told that Miss Crawford was in the nursery and I could go in if I liked. I did and am I glad!
“Hi, Hymie!’’ she called. “Come on. Join the fiin!” And there she was, the woman that I regard as the most glamorous in the world, rolling aroimd on the floor — Cynthia, Cathy, Christopher and Christina on top of her. That wouldn’t be a typical pose with a lot of girls here in Hollywood. But it struck me as a pretty true-to-life portrait of Joan Crawford — and a portrait I certainly wanted to record.
“Hate to spoil the fun,” I said, “but how about a few pictures?”
“Why not?” Joan called above the noise. “Just wait Tontil I comb my hair and straighten up the children.”
On her way to her room she stopped: “Hymie, you won’t be able to photograph the babies’ faces. They’re not legally mine, according to law, until I’ve had them for a full year. Do you mind photographing over their shoulders?”
“Of course not,” I replied. Then it hit me: Her four children had. never been photographed together before. It sure was my lucky day.
By the time I dashed down the steps — three at a time — got my camera out of the car and set up, Joan and her four youngsters were waiting for me.
I sure was there!
Ring around her heart: Joan Crawford with her adopted children, Christina, Christopher, Cynthia and Cathy
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