I arrive at a photo-express shop in the Les Halles neighborhood in Paris, where I’m hoping to get an ID photo made. To my surprise there’s a line out the door. Craning my neck I peer in to discover the source of the queue: the parents of a newborn are having it photographed by the shop’s photographer, and the baby isn’t cooperating. The father holds the infant prone on its back, positioned on a paper surface under a diffused spotlight. The photographer meanwhile darts back and forth to get a good angle above the father. Every couple of exposures the photographer shows the results to the mother (who’s standing awkwardly to the side); then some new directions are given to the father, who diligently re-positions himself and the baby. This is repeated until the baby decides it’s had enough and starts wailing. The group takes a pause and one of the people queued up (who all appear to be waiting for ID photos) is led to the chair opposite the platform where the photographer adjusts the lighting to take an image of the face. This pattern continues – an attempt with the baby, one or two ID photos, then the baby again – until it’s the turn of the mother and adult daughter ahead of me. Both are unhappy with the first set of images and make minor adjustments in their clothing or hair before having the photos redone. At last they’re content, and now it’s my turn. I remove my glasses and sit down, and with no hesitation the photographer takes two images in rapid succession. She shows me the image on the screen: hardly flattering (but no ID photo ever is), I mumble ‘oui, ça va,’ pay the fee, and leave.