You don’t look at all like your photograph,” Rankin tells me, squinting as he scans my face for recognisable attributes. “Oh, really?” I counter. “How so?” “No reason, you just look different. I thought I knew you, but now I realise I don’t.”
Rankin has done his research. He’s Googled me. He’s read my work. One of the world’s leading photographers, directors, and publishing entrepreneurs has been judging me from a distance. And by the time I settle myself opposite him on a white leather couch in the middle of his glass-walled office, stared down at by eight Mick Jagger portraits on one wall, and Gisele on the other, I’m feeling slightly intimidated.
But the truth is, he isn’t a bit like I thought he’d be either. He’s shorter than I’d imagined. He’s rounder, too. Plainly dressed. And, far from the macho, arrogant-by-trade creative force I’d pre-determined, he’s friendly, warm, candid and a little bit camp.