You’ve been sitting at your impressively large executive desk for days, mulling over the myriad ways to approach your next provocative story. It has to be told, but how? You love the way instagram reminds you of your imaginary childhood in the 1960s but your editor friends at the Chronicle will just laugh at you again. All your NatGeo contacts are busy shooting indigenous so-and-sos and Annie Leibovitz isn’t returning your calls. You need a visionary, a dynamo: a serious photographer.
A week later, the moment of truth. Deadlines are approaching, readers are waiting with baited fingers to run their mouths in the comment section of a new shiny story. The mustachioed man in his Lucha Libre mask comes tearing around the corner on his too-small tricycle and *click*. It’s bold, it’s italic, it’s... perfect.