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Didn't cameras demand attention? It's not like you could pretend they weren't there, watching your every move.
Didn't people demand attention, too? Or else, why put yourself in front of a camera? For him, it might have been that he found himself there by happenstance. It was a job within the realm of possibility. It was an option. One he may have been lightly coerced into choosing. But he could do it. And it was unique, and fun, and interesting. Even if it was tricky, and unusual, and awkward. He reckoned video wasn't too different from taking pictures of himself. He liked taking a good picture.
There were some things he was conscious of. The camera, above all else. Because the camera captured the self, and that's what he was really conscious of. All the things that could be captured.
He knew he had a face. His outer appearance existed. It was material and perceivable. He saw it in his reflection, or projected back at him on screen. He saw the way it looked if he turned his head this way, or that way, or put his hood up, or down, or moved a strand of hair from here, to there. It was something most people did. Seeing themselves in the mirror and turning their heads this way or that. He had more reflections than the average person, though. It was his job. It was his duty to be visible. So he put his hood up, then down, and moved a strand of hair from here, to there. He once tried drinking with his straw at the corner of his mouth instead of the center, avoiding pursed lips like some people avoided sunlight or side-sleeping. But he was only as good at forming new habits as he was breaking old ones.
It was his duty to be entertaining. The jury was probably still out for deliberation. Scripts made him nervous and he was no natural host. But he liked to tell stories, and crack jokes, and do impressions. He was cheery and adaptable. A natural friend, he hoped. So he was probably well enough within the realm of entertaining. Even when he was made to struggle, optimism bore silver linings. He could poke fun at himself in the aftermath, or come off as charming in his bashfulness, or offer the floor to someone else in an act of quick wit. Things tended to work out for him in the end. Not because he had a knack for entertaining, but because of calculation and re-calibration. He was too self-preserving to flounder beyond reason. He was conscious of the fact that he played it very, very safe.
It was his duty to be good at things, at least some things. He was certainly passable. Whether he was "good" was something he himself would never hazard to guess. "Good" relative to what? To whom? The wider the margins, the less "good" he was likely to be. He focused on becoming better rather than considering if he was good at something. Given the likelihood of how lacking he was in regards to his career, and his belief that there was always room for improvement, he considered himself good at very few things. Others in his position may have been more forthcoming, more openly proud. They were within their rights to brag about a job well done. In his case, he opted to brag very little. Even the things he thought he was good at, the things he did brag about, were bragged about quietly. They were acknowledged with light-hearted rapidity, and then swiftly ceded to the next subject of conversation. Even if he liked to tease, it remained as teasing. There wasn't a shred of real hubris within him.
He liked to listen and be interjected. It was fun when other people's excitement took over. So it turned out that he was a much better listener than a speaker, which wasn't very celebrity-like. But he liked following rules and instructions. He felt responsible for doing what he was supposed to do. So if celebrity demanded he speak, he spoke. If he needed to assert himself to bring everyone back on track, he asserted himself. Not because it was what celebrity itself demanded, but because it was the responsible thing to do. It vexed him when others acted without the appropriate urgency and attitude. In his mind, the world existed within a karmic balance. He made a conscious effort not to upset or disappoint.
His jacket sleeves were prone to slipping from his shoulders. He was ambivalent as to how he should or shouldn't appear on camera, about the ways his clothing should or shouldn't be worn and seen. He was conscious of the concept of modesty. That it existed, even if he didn't really know what it meant to him. So he pulled his sleeves back up, eventually, more often than not. Even though he liked bare shoulders, because he was quick to overheat. He pulled them back up, even though most humans are beholden to some intrinsic need for appeal. He would never admit or betray whether he was beholden to anything beyond an acceptable degree of propriety. And sometimes the people who dressed him did so with plunging necklines and cutouts and crops. It was something he didn't think much of, and yet was made to think of anyway. This is today's outfit, he'd say. It's a bold concept. Peekaboo.
He was conscious of the fact that he was putting on a performance. He knew he could draw attention to things before someone else drew the attention for him. He could get ahead of vulnerable situations by addressing them outright. He could avoid awkward sentiments by wielding humor. He could allow himself to get comfortable, to a degree, but he knew he was being observed. He made intentional movements and gestures and facial expressions. He pointed to plunging necklines and cutouts and crops and said this is kind of strange, isn't it? He confronted his mistakes with an oh, well, it happens. He scrunched up his face at playful affection and betrayed nary a weaker emotion. Not because he was on camera or on stage—though that exacerbated the performance tenfold—but because any single person was watching. In a room of hundreds, or dozens, or even just two, his defenses were deployed. He smiled under pressure. He deflected emotional advances. He demanded a safe amount of attention and no more. He was conscious of who he was and who was watching. He remained under the constant surveillance of his own superego. Because he wasn't actually good at being poised and presentable. Because he'd actively trained himself to do things like lessening his pout when he spoke. Because there were still things he had to stop doing, like biting his nails to the bone. Because, even with all his combined efforts, he was nowhere near infallible. He had to remain vigilant. Even in his sleep his body refused to relax. He twitched and mumbled and tossed and turned. I'm alert, his brain told him. I'm aware. I'm conscious.