One of Kirsten Johnson's main points concerning the creation of Cameraperson (and documentary in general) is this:
"My work requires trust, demands intimacy and entails total attention. To both me and the people I film, our relationship often feels like a friendship or family connection, but it is something different."
The answer to this question is epitomized by an exchange early on in the film, between KJ and a coach at the boxing match:
C: "Hey, how are you?"
KJ: "I'm getting real close to everybody tonight."
C: "Okay. Nothing wrong with being close."
KJ: "That's what I always say."
C: "Keeps everybody warm."
KJ: "Exactly!"
This closeness, or "intimacy" as KJ dubs it, is essential to her art. She forges bonds with subjects around the world, often delving far more into their personal lives than the typical, surface-level documentarian would. One could argue that these relationships are simple friendships, but friendships take time to develop and adjust as the intimacy between two people changes. These connections are something far more powerful: a partnership between artists.
KJ speaks about getting permission to shoot people, how sometimes all it takes is a single look, and the person "sees her shooting them." This brings them into a sense of performance - by registering that they're on camera, they will undoubtedly act differently from when they're on camera. This comprises the main separation between friend or family and artist: artists can collaborate powerfully and take risks for one another, but they might not empathize and relate to each other like close relations would. This becomes painfully clear in two scenarios: the scene outside Sana'a Central Prison, and the scenes with KJ's mother.
Outside the prison, KJ engages with a friendly driver who's willing to take her close to a prison where journalists are not allowed to film. A friend or family member might not take this risk for a loved one (because they might be concerned about the other's judgment), but a fellow individual in the headspace of an artist might. In this case, the driver lies about needing to get some water in a nearby bodega in order to get KJ and her fellow cameraperson close to the entrance. Soon after getting their shot, they're pulled over by what sounds like an authority who asks the driver to step out of the vehicle. Here, the editor makes a dramatic narrative choice by cutting away to a completely different scene, leaving us hanging on what happens to the driver. This reveals KJ's privilege in this film's storyline - she (and by extension, the audience) can cut out of a tense scene without fear of repercussion, but that driver could not. The relationship becomes imbalanced here, putting another person in peril the way no loved one ever should. What seems to be an artistic risk for KJ could mean mortal danger for this driver, but she skews the story here so we never know for sure.
Another moment that highlights this relative/artist dichotomy comes when KJ films her mother on a ranch. She sounds approachable in the voiceover we hear before she first appears onscreen, but as she arrives in the camera's view she immediately turns sullen and dour, not even responding when KJ asks if she can film her. This scene feels especially moving because it shows how our loved ones may not be willing to come face to face with our art, least of all participate in it. Even though her mother cares for her and talks to her in a familiar way, she doesn't truly open up like she might offscreen.
The closeness of the camera in Cameraperson elevates the individual to the realm of artist, but does so at a deep emotional cost.
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