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The Boston Globe

By Kevin Cullen, Globe Columnist | September 10, 2007

Inside one of the high-ceiling rooms at the Boston Public Library, Herb Reed of the Platters was sitting in an easy chair, talking about the music that will outlive the drivel, as Ed Davis, the police commissioner, was on his cellphone, making sure all hell didn't break loose while he swanned away an hour in a corner of town more salubrious than most corners he finds himself peopling.

The PC and R&B, side by side, two of 1,500 people who showed up on a sultry Friday evening, ostensibly to celebrate Bill Brett's new book, "Boston: An Extended Family," but really to celebrate Bill Brett, who since his so-called retirement from the Globe six years ago has become as much of an institution as the ones he photographs.

This, no doubt, will be seen by some as one Globe guy stroking a former Globe guy who still contributes to this newspaper. But this could be written by someone at the Herald or any of the TV and radio stations in town, and that's the point.

There will be some who say the crowd that spilled out into the BPL's grand Italianate courtyard consisted mostly of those who have been or want to be subjects of Brett's flattering portraits.

If that's what you think, you don't know Bill Brett, and you certainly wouldn't understand what makes him appreciated like no other photographer in town.

His second act as the coffee table book chronicler of Boston follows 38 years on the street, shooting news. He learned at the foot of a master, the late, great Dan Sheehan, who taught him, "Be nice, but always get the picture."

He treats everybody the same, without regard to their zip code. He is polite but not obsequious. He believes that if he photographs people at charitable events who have good intentions, good things happen. He's real.

One day, after photographing Justin Timberlake, Brett asked him to spell his name. "Timberland?" Brett asked.

The singer spelled his name aloud, and the caption was accurate.

"It isn't what he does," said Bob Scannell, president of the Colonel Daniel Marr Boys and Girls Club in Dorchester, "it's how he does it."

At some point, while the rest of us were figuring out whom we could step on to get ahead, Bill Brett figured out something so outrageously obvious that it was pure genius: If you're nice to people, they're nice back.

"In this town, we love to hate," said Chuck Campion, who having worked on more than one political campaign knows of what he speaks. "That's what makes Billy unique. There's no one in this town that bears him ill will. How many people can you say that about?"

The crowd at the BPL was as diverse in age, race, and socio-economics as you'll find anywhere in this city. There were some who valeted their BMWs, and others who took the Green Line. Red Sox great Johnny Pesky was there, but so, too, were the Fenway Park clubhouse attendants. It looked like Boston. It talked like Boston. Politicians would kill for those demographics, and Brett's favorability ratings.

In the library foyer, 7-year-old Kai Leigh Harriott signed copies of the book, in which her portrait is included. She drew a heart with every autograph. She was dressed in a black evening dress and was in a wheelchair because a man fired a bullet that paralyzed her when she was 3. After night fell, she wheeled herself to the curb on Dartmouth Street as her mother, Tonya David, helped her into a Ford Explorer, the SUV that philanthropist David Mugar bought them after Brett put the arm on him.

Kai Leigh was not surprised that so many people had showed up for Bill Brett. "He's a nice man," she said.

Bernie Margolis, the BPL president, and Brett were the last to leave Friday night. They shook hands and Margolis told him he thought it was the biggest party at the library since it was founded in 1848.

Bill Brett climbed into his car, exhausted, and flipped on his police scanner.

Somewhere, somehow, Danny Sheehan was smiling.

Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com
© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.
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