Much like making a scone, the secret to making plaster of paris look good on camera was in what you<em>didn't</em>mix. Those tiny bubbles and lumps would break up the reflection stage lights, make it look less like the wearer had a white-painted balloon wrapped around their limb. Especially in HD... oh, HD, the cinematographer's darling, the prop and makeup department's bane. All those little flaws and imperfections that normal-grain celluloid smoothed over, HD captured in unyielding digital starkness, revealed for the world to see.<br/><br/>And speaking of imperfections... here came someone with remarkably few visible to the naked eye.<br/><br/>“Back here,” Jon called out over his shoulder, sliding the oversized wooden spatula out of the plaster. He watched it trickle off the edge, just inconsistent enough in texture to give it a realistic surface effect on camera. He tapped the spatula on the edge of the tray, shaking off most of the stuff, before turning to wait for his visitor. He wore black denim jeans and, in deference to the un-airconditioned environment of the props warehouse, a sleeveless white singlet that revealed brawny shoulders and tanned arms, ink torsioned across flesh as he folded them across his chest. The half-completed sex apparatus lay on the bench behind him, partially concealed by its cover.<br/><br/>As far as talent went, Hannah Tate was pleasant enough, and certainly easy on the eyes. They'd actually met once or twice, but he didn't expect her to remember him amongst all the gaffers and best boys and chief grips and foley artists she'd been introduced to over the course of filming. As she stepped around a shelf of collapsible knives, he raised his chin and eyebrows in a vertical nod of greeting. Of course, his eyes did The Circuit, too... legs and hips and breasts before reaching those baby blues... but no more than any other guy. “Nobody but Santa's little elf,” he replied wryly.