A group of six early to mid twenty-somethings.  All things considered, moderately dressed in the sense that a goth-looking grouping can be dressed — which is to say simply — their clothes were black and there might have been one or two accessory of some sort, but they could pass as — well, I suppose respectable figures in society, not that anyone particularly wants to be in that category.
They are taking photographs, posing in various places in this room.  It’s a strange place to be taking photographs, but maybe not — everyday life happens to get you here and if there’s no occasion, so much the better to get photographs of how you actually lived your day to day life.

So, they pose in front of a contraption I am purposefully vague on.  (An ugly painting if you must know — seemingly one created with shock value in mind).   A couple of them smile, somewhat wickedly.  The photographer stops before she take the photograph.  “Hey!  You can’t do that!  Remember:  We’re goths!”  The smiles are wiped out, stern expressions (profound?) are adapted in the pose, and the photograph is taken.
Identity politics, I suppose.

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