Snaps – Alex Ruiz
January 14, 2026
I walk into the room, a man is photographing a woman. She’s holding her smile while the photographer snaps pictures from the same angle, the same distance, which, to me, doesn’t make a lot of sense but I imagine there’s a purpose to it. There has to be.
It’s not hard to spot the insecurity in the woman’s smile (you can also see she’s being very brave about the whole affair), but it makes me wonder why the photographer isn’t taking more initiative. “Let’s try this instead”, “what if you cross your legs”, “tilt your head a bit, relax, try closing your mouth this time.”
None of that, he just keeps snapping. Snapping and snapping every few seconds. It’s dull and banal yet it must cost a lot of money given that he’s shooting in film. Why? The end product of course. You take a thousand pictures of the same thing from the same angle from the same distance, you keep doing, it tire it out, make it hopeless and sad and maybe you even begin to feel rotten and defeated, but in the end you have a thousand pictures to choose from and they all tell a different story. Or they all tell the same story except some tell it better than others. Who knows. I’m just watching this poor woman hold position for what seems like an eternity while the photographer continues to snap pictures like an automaton. Neither of them move much, actually.
She’s not particularly pretty, late twenties. The photographer is in his late 30s, balding at the crown and the hair that remains is frizzled and unkempt, like Bernie Sanders’ hair. He’s probably older. I bet he’s ugly in the face, but he must do well for himself. In fact, this is probably it for him, he’s living the dream, doing what he always wanted to do. As a child he got his picture taken during picture day at school and decided then and there that he wanted to be the man behind the camera, except instead of children he wanted to photograph adult women.
I’m doing my first scene. Me and the woman and the photographer and some other dudes in the opposite corner fixing up some lights are in this small bedroom. I showed up about an hour early thinking traffic would be bad. She’s sitting at the edge of a queen size bed adorned with grey linen sheets and a mountain of pillows. They’re playing with the lights in the corner but for now the only lighting we’re getting is from the overhead lamp and the sunlight bleeding through the window shades.
I can’t imagine this is as professional as it gets. It’s only a house in Silver Lake, unassuming, not even in the hills. One day I’ll do a scene in the hills, maybe, the Hollywood hills, or a studio. I’ll have money then. My scene partner won’t be someone who’s uncomfortable in front of a camera. I’ll have abs.
He finally stops snapping, says we’re done in monotone, and she pulls out a vape from under her lap. Cool mint, the same flavor that I have.
“Cool mint.”
“Cool mint.”
“Scene partner?”
“Scene partner.”
I smoke with her ignoring the irony of having a vaping sesh with someone. She must be exhausted and, well, it works. It breaks the ice. It’s not difficult to break the ice, though, Hello is all you need usually, but Hello would’ve been inappropriate in this context.
We exchange vapes, why not. Her’s is very warm and doesn’t hit as hard as mine. We’re ignoring the guys with the cameras and lights, as if they’re not in the same room as us. They’ll let us know when they’re ready.
“You gotta charge this thing.”
“Yup. first time?”
“I’ve done a few scenes before. Webcam stuff. I’m sure you can find me on the big sites if you search hard enough.”
“Same here.”
I assume me and this girl have loads in common though probably too much. I can’t bear talking to her and I imagine she can’t either. Like when you look at yourself in the mirror for too long, that same nauseating familiarity, to see yourself and just yourself.
Just you divorced from the context that makes the narrative plausible and not cheap.
She pulls out her phone and, feeling awkward hovering over her, I take a seat on an odd plastic chair by the wall closest to the door and also pull out my phone.
I begin scrolling mechanically. Most everything nowadays can travel and work hyperfast if you program it as such or if you simply desire it to, but not you. You have well defined limits that you’re very aware of. For example my exchange with the girl: I quickly grew exhausted of the conversation, I could not be programmed to reengage.
Silent moving and silent still images and slideshows.
I can hear the guys fucking around with the lights and one of them is typing on his macbook. Her bouncing leg is visible from behind my phone, but from my periphery I only register it as blurred bouncing flesh. Front and center, that’s what I’m paying attention to.
There’s a drab, altogether sad scene taking place behind my phone, just a few inches away, a few feet, but it holds nothing. I hold nothing, no pathos, nothing, it’s only work. What do you call it? Bathos. I came expecting to give about an hour of my time for a few hundred bucks, but I don’t feel up to it. I think I came too early. I suspect I’ve got a bit of BO brewing under my pits and I lazily console myself figuring it’s bearable.
The photographer stands up with a sigh.
“You’re good man? Some water, coffee? We have some brews in the fridge.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Is he in charge of this whole operation? The director? I’m new enough to this industry to not understand how these things usually work.
He shrugs and asks the girl if he can take a hit of her vape. He takes a large hit but no smoke exhales from his mouth or nostrils even though he doesn’t look to be holding it in.
“Alright,” he coughs, “you ready to start again?”
“Yup.”
She takes off her top and bra, lays back on the mountain of pillows and smiles wide. In a few seconds he begins to snap again.
Untitled
The morning bed lies restless and dirty white like a mangled dove the divan on the floor and the sheets stained with wine and water sweat and sleeplessness and over to work without an hour of sleep the car flies past many others mindlessly without a single thought thinking of the bed of the disordered bed and how comfortable it would be right now much more than the freeway so cold under the white sun immense meaningless and without a single soul and the car speeds past itching to get to its destination so far away from the undefined passage of the streets and the freeway the unfeeling pavement and asphalt concrete how it all renders the mind uncontained and discontent thinking of the bed and of better days like the things we did in those days and how it could have kept going how nothing no external force forced us to stop we simply stopped and desired more and felt it was just a bit too small a bit too meaningless so we structured a life around freeways and unkempt beds bitter black coffee and work and work and the relief of weekends a girlfriend a boyfriend some friends or none some money some places to go some drinks to drink and interesting restaurants to try out some books to read some people to meet some movies to see some places to sit some places to rest some beds to miss some things to hate some things to love some people to hate some people to love and we allowed time to pass and pass and we could’ve held it for much longer but we allowed time to pass and mature harden and harden until it’s grasp eventually withers and we’re released without restraint fully to our melancholy and wouldnt it be nice to never have to get out of bed again to never have to get into a car again to go into the office to show your face to shave to fuck wouldnt it be nice to never have to do a single thing ever again and simply retire and allow the bits and pieces of it all to allow themselves to regroup and narrate themselves into a nice neat whole the wholeness we searched for all this time the wholeness we desired so much we abandoned the things we used to do back in those days.