Something about this photo reminds me of Caravaggio. The staging, your eye starting at the upper left and following the shaft of light down, stopped and redirected by the denim workshirt of the rando. Another turn at the coffee cups–horizontal stripes against a vertically-oriented motion to the portrait–and then up to Garcia’s eyes. Nothing there, so a glance at the sweaty glow of his forehead and finally down to the image’s centerpoint, the flame of the Bic lighter.
Is he at a dinner? There are wine glasses. How many people are behind those two waiting so casually? He’d sit there and sign things and bullshit all night unless Parish came and so rudely dragged him away. Garcia would always protest, and then thank him.