Graciela Iturbide
[Photographer, b. 1942, Mexico City, lives in Coyoacán, Mexico.]

 I never use a telephoto lens. I need to be close to people. I need their complicity; I need them to be aware that I am there taking their picture. I hate paparazzi. 

Nobuyoshi Araki
[Photographer, b. 1940, Tokyo, lives in Tokyo.]

 I’ve been taking photographs since I came into this world. I was no sooner out of my mother’s womb, than I turned around and photographed her sex. 

Kate Moss
[Model, b. 1974, Croydon, England, lives in St Johns Wood, England.]

 Once I was walking from The Mercer Hotel in New York down the street, and this woman paparazzo who was following me fell over a fire hydrant and her whole tooth went through her lip. I leant over her, saying, “Are you all right?” and she was still taking pictures. I was, “You know what? You are sick in the head.” 

Samuel Butler
[Writer, b. 1835, Langar Rectory, Nottinghamshire, England, d. 1902, London.]

 There is a photographer in every bush, going about like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. 

Ron Galella
[Photographer, b. 1931, Bronx, New York, lives in New York.]

 My style is the paparazzi approach which is spontaneous, unrehearsed, off-guard. The beauty I’m after is inherent, more natural. Genuine emotions, real emotions, that’s what I look for. 

Federico Fellini
[Filmmaker, b. 1920, Rimini, Italy, d. 1993, Rome.]

 There is no such thing as a good paparazzo. A good paparazzo, that’s a paparazzo who has had his camera broken. In fact, they are bandits, thieves of photography. (Statement after photographs were published showing Jackie Onassis sunbathing nude.) 

Ron Galella
[Photographer, b. 1931, Bronx, New York, lives in New York.]

 My job is thick with risks, threats, occasional violence and sometimes the necessary folly that sometimes courts humiliation and ridicule. But I don’t care. I see myself as the dean of American paparazzi. 

Tom Wolfe
[Writer, b. 1930, Richmond, Virginia, d. 2018, New York.]

 Then 1967’s Photographer of the Century made his entrance at a dead run, carrying a stroboscopic 35mm camera. He bolted into the tubercular-blue gleam of the room and hurled himself toward the floor, feet first like a baseball player going into second base. He slid ... an ectomorphic sliver... sweeping through one and all, flailing away at the film advance lever of his camera, squeezing off six, eight, ten pictures about calf level during his furious skid. Stroboscopic lights burst all around. They were like rockets. 
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