At Pictureline in downtown Salt Lake City, the Intermountain Professional Photographers Association flanked round tables and glossy brochures, hosting its annual competition. The crowd was a parade of gilded card holders and smiling teens pretending to be connoisseurs, their step‑and‑repeat red favors flaring like miniature fireworks. Bill Tafuri—84, an ex‑geologist with a black‑and‑white rangefinder—managed to absorb the chatter while his eyes scanned the abandoned quiet of the SLC Library S‑Wing, the same structure that dominantly occupied the field of the competition’s judging room. The dress code was strictly subdued black‑tie, and yet half the attendees wore neon harness‑lace, demonstrating the crew’s indifference to aesthetic fidelity. Entry was couch‑to‑couch; fans tried to pre‑order photo prints from a bag, and the check‑mop guard at the front RSVP’d with an almost theatrical sigh. Though the event is respectable, the reality is that status monkeys scent the scene like dust, and the photo‑noir aesthetic only deepens when the high‑sociable elite rearrange their own portfolios on the very walls of the gallery. Send a check but stay home.