Los Angeles. The city of dreams. Or, more accurately, the city where dreams come to die.
My job is to keep the dream alive for those foolish enough to chase it. At least for a little while. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of young actors and actresses entrust me with the creation of their photo book, highlighting the best of their features and finding their best possible angles, hoping it will set them apart from the pile of applications sitting on some casting agent's desk. Spoiler alert: it won't. Most of them are nothing more than pretty faces, and in these city, those are dime a dozen.
Nevertheless, I have earned my reputation as one of the best in the business.
I arrive at my studio, half an hour early as usual. Not a speck of dust on the walls or the floor. I always make sure I clean the place every afternoon before I leave. In the morning, I prefer to focus on the more meaningful parts of the job.
I flip through the pages of my appointment book so I can take a look at the list of today's clients. Of course, I could have switched to a digital booking system long ago. It would certainly make the process quite a bit more efficient. But, to be perfectly honest, I'm not very good with computers -- and even after twenty-five years in the business, I haven't had the heart to switch from the tried and true pen-and-paper approach. Call it a little quirk of mine.
My first appointment for the day goes by the name of James Bennett. He's going to be here any minute now.
I make sure my appearance is as it should be: Black leather trousers, grey turtleneck sweater, rectangle-rimmed glasses, blond dyed hair tied behind my head. I have always maintained that my appearance is an important part of the job. When a client sees me, I subconsciously project the image I want to capture with my camera. So that's what my image should be: picture perfect.
The doorbell rings, signalling the arrival of my client. Sitting at my desk, I buzz him in.
A young man walks into the office and closes the door behind him. Tall, thin, with a clean-shaven pale face, his hair short and curly -- a haircut that has become quite popular with boys his age these days.
"Good morning, Mrs. Turner," he says with a soft, British accent.
"Emma. Call me Emma," I reply, smiling. I always try to establish communication on a first name basis. In my experience, it makes clients more comfortable, helps them loosen up a bit.
"Emma," he says and tilts his view downward, blushing. "That doesn't sound quite right. Is it alright if I stick to Mrs. Turner?"
I chuckle. "Mrs. Turner it is, then. You must be James, right? Or should I say, Mr. Bennett?"
"James is fine," he says, chuckling back at me.
"Well then, James. Let's get to work, shall we?"
I direct James to the white draped section of the room, to the tall metal stool, set between a complex system of softboxes and reflectors and intimidatingly large studio lights.
He sits, practically slouching, his hands hiding his body to the best of their ability. He looks at me nervously. "Is that alright?"
"Well. Let's work on your posture a little bit, shall we?"
He looks flustered. "I'm sorry Mrs. Turner, it's the first time I'm doing this and I-"
I hold my hand up, interrupting him. "Don't worry. Everyone takes a little time to warn up, it's quite normal. For now, I just want you to relax, okay?"
"Okay."
Actually, it's not quite normal. Usually, the people whose life's dream to become actors are those who have no problem projecting their image to the world. James appears to be doing the exact opposite, trying to hide his face and body as much as he can.
"So," I continue, "I want you to straighten your back and let your arms loose. And give me a nice, big smile."
He dutifully follows my advice. I click the button on my camera a few times.
"So, James. Where are you from?" I always found that small talk, however mundane, helps to lighten the mood a little. In this case, it's needed a little more than usual.
"Cambridge. Although I've lived in London for the past few years. You know, studying acting and all. I've been here for just a month, give or take."
"Trying to make it big in Hollywood?"
"Aren't we all?"
I take a look at my camera and I go through the photos I've taken so far. There's clearly something missing. Sure, he's a good looking guy, but the stiff awkwardness in his look and posture is unmissable.
Well, "good looking" might be a bit of an understatement. I can imagine all the girls his age fawning over him. But still, his pictures never rise above the level of good enough. Good enough is not good enough for me. I'm a professional, I'm supposed to be the best in the business, and I want something more.
I approach him.
"May I?" I tell him, pointing at the collar of his shirt.
He nods and mumbles, "sure".
I adjust the collar a little bit and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Perhaps this will help him open up a little bit.
I lift my head and I catch his eyes staring directly into mine. As soon as our eyes meet, he looks to the side. I think there's a slight blush in his cheeks -- well, maybe a little more than before.
"What's the matter, James? Everything alright?"
"Yeah, I just-- I'm a little nervous."
"No need to be. You're doing great." A few words of encouragement never hurt anyone, right?
