That’s Gavin.
And his shirt and his glasses.
Together, they form an image of a fine young greaser.
If you know something about Gavin, you know he doesn’t smile for me.
And that’s exactly as it should be.
He’s got a point of view.
He resists much; obeys little.
Good for him.
Cleverly, I asked Gavin to smile,
Knowing precisely what I would get:
A radiant non-smile of magnificent proportions.
Perfect for a steely-eyed visage and a tough kid aesthetic.
So good on dad for hacking childhood behavior and making the shot work.
A few days later, Gavin hacked me back, proper.
We were scouting light at Stevens Creek County Park.
Dad, he said, posting up in dry yellow grass.
You can take a picture of me for a scoop of ice cream, he said.
One or two?
Two, he said.
No, one.
OK.
Smile or no smile? I asked.
He laughed.
No smile, he said.
Deal.
I got the shot; Gavin got his scoop.
So good on us.

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