No one flinches at the applesauce of seven people, none of whom actually aspire to appear in photos or on screens, suddenly contemplating the possibility of taking professional headshots in the cramped bathroom of a small, overpriced West Hollywood one bedroom. Within seconds, there are too many people in the bathroom, gesturing wildly and agreeing loudly with Ronnie’s asessment of the situation. The setting sun, draped in smog, is blazing soft orange and yellow through the horizontal slats in the rectangular window above the bathtub. At about 6:30 on this day, it hits a spot on the back wall that corresponds with the head-height of someone between five and six feet tall. The excitement reaches a fever pitch and there’s talk of advertising the “location” on Craigslist, for people who actually need headshots, when someone jumps into the light and makes a contemplative/constipated face.
“Oh that’s gorgeous. Goddamn. Someone get a camera.”
I’m back in the bathroom with the camera and ten minutes later, the ugliest four people in this building are cooing over their headshots. Respectably, the two women and one other man in the apartment begged out, offering only an airtight and irrefutable “you guys are pathetic.” Never mind the nay sayers – the results speak for themselves. This spot, this magical portal of flattering evening light, took four hideous street goons and transformed them into four marginally less hideous corporate robberbarons. Actually, I’m pissed that mine makes me look like I have a mustache. Everyone knows you can’t get good work with a mustache.
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