Most days, Jackie wore that same brown blouse. Made of synthetic fibers, it had seen better days, court illustrator Marilyn Church remarked. There was little evidence of that high-fashion elegance she was so famous for. Instead, the brown polyester captured the tension of the court room, clinging to her skin statically, her hair turning electric whenever in touch with the material. Polyester, a material that typically advertises itself as resilient to everything; rain, stains, tears, wrinkles. Maybe she chose the blouse because it was low maintenance, as a suitable option for multi-day use, or because it acted as a shield against the outside world. But Church knew this wasn’t true. As she drew Jackie in the 1982 court case against paparazzi photographer Ron Galella, she followed her closely, sketching Jackie’s brown silhouette onto brown paper, day after day. The blouse didn’t breathe, and it probably smelled, too. It no longer looked like it once had on some department store mannequin or in a grainy black-and-white catalogue photograph in cheap print, where you couldn’t grasp the garment properly anyway. There is always a sense of disappointment in clothing bought from a picture — a reminder that most things are better when they remain a fantasy.
Notable examples of Galella’s conduct include: (1) hopping out in front of John Kennedy’s bicycle; (2) interrupting Caroline at tennis; (3) invading the children’s privacy at their private schools; (4) coming uncomfortably close to Jackie Kennedy in a power boat while she was swimming; and (5) posturing around Jackie Kennedy at a theater opening and other numerous occasions.
It was the second time Jackie and Galella met in court. The first time, seven years prior in 1975, Jackie had sued the paparazzi for invading her and her family’s privacy, according to the documents from the New York District Court. He was stalking her, as one might say. Following her down the street, through the park, chasing her in a taxi. Learning about routines and preferences she herself didn’t know she had. Most of Galella’s photos of her are taken after the Kennedy era. After her husband was shot and killed next to her in a convertible; after the mourning, and remarrying a greek shipping millionaire, and buying a 5,300 square feet flat on Fifth Avenue, New York. Galella came in to Jackie’s life after she became the O. Her movements are no longer shaped by the strictures of the White House. Long slim Givenchy dresses no longer define her movements. In her new life — if you’d want to call if that — she was free to wear jeans and t-shirts, flat shoes, go for walks in the park, streets, shops. To do as she liked, be a New Yorker. Wear flat shoes more suitable for walking. Blend in with the crowd, or at least try. Many of Galella’s photos of Jackie feature her back and a fast-paced walk down some crowded New York street. Others are partially covered by the finger or presence of a body guard with a dark suit, strong hands. Some are so closely zoomed in from afar to decide whether we’re looking at a smile or a dare. Flat shoes are, by the way, functional if one suddenly finds oneself in a hurry or having to speed up the pace in order to shake off the approaching photographer, and his fast steps. Small and bouncy, despite the heavy camera around his neck. He followed her for a living, creating Jackie into the icon we all know so well today. A stylish socialite with big sunglasses, flat shoes, a style perhaps shaped around being able to hide when she had to.
There is no scope to the First Amendment right that provides absolute immunity to newspersons from any liability for their conduct while gathering the news.
The most intimate encounters, however, are rarely captured. She once pushed him up against a car by the side of the street, demanding him to stop following her. In court, they were seated facing each other, everything uninterrupted for once. Cameras weren’t yet allowed in court rooms— hence the court illustrations. For once, Galella appeared in public without a camera. In return, he could watch Jackie day, like a still life not going anywhere.
Galella fancies himself as a "paparazzo" (literally a kind of annoying insect, perhaps roughly equivalent to the English "gadfly.") Paparazzi make themselves as visible to the public and obnoxious to their photographic subjects as possible to aid in the advertisement and wide sale of their works.
A paparazzi thrives on novelty, and it’s an old trick in the book of celebrities to wear the same outfit repeatedly. By doing so, they deny photographers the newness that drives their work. To wear the same blouse in court, countless days in a row, was therefore a deliberate act of stagnation — a visual statement that there was nothing new to see. They had met in court before, battled the same issues, which resulted in a restraining order for Galella to keep at least 25ft feet away from Jackie or any of her children, but here they were again. If the brown blouse had intended to function as an armour, it had failed. The polyester, promising smooth, easy surfaces; resisting wrinkles and stains had instead made an imperfect shield. This was at least apparent to Church: after all, it was her job to draw the blouse, worn on Jackie — frustrated, exhausted, and with sweat stains under her arms — surrounded by troops of male lawyers and judges in their dark dresses and black capes, resembling characters from a different universe rather than the guardians of truth in this world. The court room is a stressful place, but equally artificial. Real life is reframed into a specific language of the law, with long capes and dark suits, seeking solid facts in a world of personal experiences. We think reality is best captured on camera, an objective and blunt carrier of truth. But what do we do when the camera is the predator, capturing the act of fleeing, hiding, pushing the camera away?
After a six-week trial the court dismissed Galella's claim and granted relief to both the defendant and the intervenor. Galella was enjoined from (1) keeping the defendant and her children under surveillance or following any of them; (2) approaching within 100 yards of the home of defendant or her children, or within 100 yards of either child's school or within 75 yards of either child or 50 yards of defendant; (3) using the name, portrait or picture of defendant or her children for advertising; (4) attempting to communicate with defendant or her children except through her attorney.
There is a picture of Jackie running through Central Park. Off the footpaths, across the fields and playgrounds. She is in good shape, a fast runner, and ballet flats and jeans are a good outfit choice when you have somebody to run away from. Jackie might be prepared, but she is also tired of it. She runs through the woods, circling the patterns of bushes and benches. She knows the ins and outs of the park better than the city council’s gardeners by now, she might be thinking, catching her breath as she exits the park onto the busy avenues of the Upper East Side, hoping to blend in with the other well-dressed women, hoping they’ve already copied her looks from some fashion magazine. Galella, running after her, manages to keep close. Keeping close, meaning to play in the fringes of his twenty-five feet restraint order. Feet — meters — yards, measurements are abstract sizes to embody after weeks in court, years in the business, while running after someone, a heavy camera in one hand, a portable flash in the other. But Jackie runs, and Galella runs after, negotiating their 25ft distance through constant movement — a dance. 25ft turns into an idea of what kind of photo he can expect to get. Galella can capture a small woman on a big frame, running across the grass. He can also aim for a grainy close-up, zoomed in from afar, blurry but nonetheless her. Where Jackie runs, Galella follows. After all, that’s what he does for a living.
“They were thrilling times. I remember wandering through Central Park on fall afternoons and all of a sudden finding her, like a diamond in the grass.”