From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Poof.

A chuckle came from the side, but it was quickly stifled with a hand covering the mouth.

Glaite rolled her eyes and glared at Anson, "That's not funny."

But the corners of her mouth tilted up slightly, and her serious expression completely relaxed, the low pressure silently releasing its grip.

Poof.

Immediately following, another burst of laughter erupted, and this time it couldn't be contained, spreading like wildfire throughout the entire studio in the blink of an eye.

A wave of laughter.

Anson was the only exception.

Anson spread his hands, his face calm, "People still need some flaws, otherwise they're too perfect, lacking authenticity."

Ha.

Laughter exploded completely.

Including Glaite.

Anson took the initiative to walk over, standing beside Glaite and Bruce.

"Sorry, your conversation just now didn't suppress your voices at all, not considering the bloody wound of the person involved. Wasn't it agreed that when saying bad things, you should avoid the person involved? Now that you've finished hurting me, can I express my opinion?"

Hahaha.

The atmosphere completely relaxed.

Even Bruce's expressionless face showed a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth.

Glaite restrained the corners of her mouth, trying to maintain a professional and objective posture, "Of course, what are your thoughts?"

Anson didn't speak immediately, but moved his gaze back and forth between Glaite and Bruce, making sure both of them were focused on him before speaking.

"Why don't we try Bruce's suggestion and see the effect? If it doesn't work, the second and third sets of styling can always return to the original track."

This was indeed a solution.

"Of course, the shooting time may be a bit tight, but by then, we all know I'm beyond saving, so just casually shoot and call it a day."

Glaite looked at Anson, a hint of a smile in her eyes, "Are you already impatient to leave the studio?"

Anson looked up at the sky, "Hallelujah."

Glaite's smiling face bloomed completely, unable to maintain her professional supermodel face any longer, and this time she didn't hesitate for too long, "But Bruce can't give any styling advice."

"And me?"

"I think this styling is already complete and doesn't need to be changed. Frankly, I can't understand Bruce's ideas, our ways of thinking aren't on the same track."

Anson revealed a smile, "I have some ideas about this."

Glaite was slightly stunned, but then she thought—

Maybe it's a stroke of genius?

In the first moment, Glaite's mind flashed back to the scene of Anson being interviewed by reporters in Studio 24, the photo from "The New York Times", stunning in an instant.

If there was no agent or publicist, that meant that the styling was Anson's own idea.

Taking a deep breath, Glaite looked at Anson, "Why don't we give it a try?"

And then.

Thus.

The waiting time also began to become a torment.

Standing at the door of Studio 24 on the wharf, Glaite took two steps slightly outward, looking along Melrose Avenue—

The current Melrose is not the center of Los Angeles, the collision of different styles such as hippies, rock and roll, and gypsies makes the street slightly dilapidated, and the golden California sunlight falls on those graffiti and buildings, creating a texture of oil painting, naturally revealing a kind of artistic texture.

Unable to fabricate, unable to deceive, everything is natural.

In fact, for fashion magazines, Melrose has always been one of the important locations for street photography.

But, a suit theme?

Glaite wasn't sure what kind of spark a suit and Melrose would create.

Whirr.

The warehouse door opened, Glaite looked over, and Bruce was at the very front.

The same, but also different.

Bruce was still that Bruce, without any change, the only difference was that he had put on a black bandana, which was Bruce's symbol.

When he was fully engaged in his work, he always liked to wear that bandana, which, for him, was like a talisman mascot.

Seeing the bandana, Glaite's eyes lit up slightly, and there was a hint of excitement in her voice, "Bruce?"

Bruce gave Glaite an "OK" gesture, "Ready."

No dialogue, no explanation.

Bruce immediately entered a working state, jogging all the way to the side of the street, turning around and aiming the camera lens at the warehouse door, quickly adjusting the parameters, and testing shooting from different angles, and then completing some adjustments again, his focused posture completely engrossed and single-minded.

Before long, Bruce was ready, looking at the warehouse again and shouting loudly, like the starting gun of the Olympic 100-meter race.

"Anson!"

From the warehouse, there was no sound immediately.

Quiet.

A silence.

But the amazing thing was that this time, whether it was Bruce or Glaite, they were not impatient or anxious, but found a wonderful peace.

Patiently, waiting—

Rumble.

The sound of the wheel rubbing against the ground came from far to near, a figure broke free from the shackles of darkness and ran all the way, like the monsoon over the Pacific Ocean passing through the San Fernando Valley, bringing a verdant green and rushing towards them, the gentle breeze lifting the hem of his clothes, lightly bidding farewell to spring and swaying into the embrace of summer.

Anson, appeared.

The suit, still that suit, the standard three-piece set of a white shirt and black suit.

But the styling was another matter.

The jacket, open, all the buttons of the suit and vest were undone, and the top three buttons of the shirt were also undone, even the tie had been loosened, just casually thrown around the neck like a hanger, fluttering in the wind, as if it could ride the wind away at any time, all etiquette and rules were abandoned.

Only the shirt was still tucked into the pants, but one detail was that the belt of the suit pants had also been removed, presenting the most original and simple appearance of the pants, so that the waist was slightly loose, but it perfectly matched the state of the upper body, all constraints disappeared.

Sloppy? Messy? Casual?

No.

Dashing. Debonair. Unrestrained.

The suit became an appendage, clothes were just a pile of fabric, all the light gathered on that man, shining brightly.

At first glance, Glaite thought of "La Dolce Vita", in that quiet night, Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg drove through the streets of Rome, intoxicated by the wind.

However, the thought only lingered for a moment, and Glaite rejected that idea.

Because she saw the pair of white skateboard shoes on Anson's feet, replacing leather shoes, standing on the skateboard, incompatible with the suit, but presenting a wonderful feeling, a modern and fashionable, trendy and flamboyant touch, in the present day of 2000, no one had ever worn it like this.

The rhythm of jazz, with surging drum beats, surged under the skateboard.

Then, Glaite's mind flashed the image of the young and confused teenagers in the ending of "I Vitelloni" boarding the train and gradually disappearing into the night, they were finally embarking on an unknown journey, to embrace a possibility, maybe happiness or maybe pain, everything was waiting to be discovered.

Light and shadow, flowed with that figure.

Eyes. Expression. Limbs. Vitality was surging.

Fourth update.